


now and then

by rachelamberish



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Parenting, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Constant flashbacks, Fix-It, Henry Bowers is His Own Warning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Phone Sex, Richie Tozier is Also Kind Of His Own Warning, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Underage Drinking, i do one-on-one battle with stephen king, it's about the teenage melancholia and nostalgia for lost youth, just about 10 thousand uses of the word fuck, lots of 80s music to distract from the pain!, lots of smoking, none of them are straight, repression TM, this is NOT a stanley uris fix-it so sorry to that man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 14:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 94,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelamberish/pseuds/rachelamberish
Summary: But sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can feel R + E like it's being carved into his skin, and not wood.(or Richie comes back to Derry and remembers. Piece by piece. Memory by memory.)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 77
Kudos: 139
Collections: It Faves





	1. A Kick To The Nuts

** now **

Mike’s phone call comes like a swift kick to the nuts. 

But, Richie thinks, at least it’s something that feels real. And—oddly—familiar. Like, he’s _definitely_ been kicked in the nuts like this before, but it’s been a minute. Maybe he doesn’t remember where, or when, or how. But he sure as shit has, and as much as it makes him feel like death now, there’s also something about this particular kick to the nuts that reminds him—as if he had forgotten for twenty-seven whole fuckin’ years—that at one point in his life, he used to feel more than just numb.

And as much as he stands there and pretends to not know a _Mike Hanlon from Derry, Maine_, or the _Losers, _or anything-the-fuck-else he’s talking about, as soon as he hangs up, Richie starts to feel real funny. 

It starts as a faint ringing sound in his ears, like tinnitus, only worse. More like a migraine, actually. Really bad, like his mom used to get on blazing hot summer afternoons when the AC was wrecked to shit, and she’d had too much peach schnapps and whiskey. He remembers her laying on the couch, cold washcloth on her forehead, eyes shut, letting loose a quiet moan of discomfort every few minutes or so. He’d tiptoe through the living room after tossing his bike down on the front lawn and coming inside, wincing at every creaking floorboard on the way to his room. The hallway of their home seemed to stretch for miles, then. And when he finally reached his room, he’d close his door slowly—centimeter by centimeter—until it clicked softly into the frame. He’d crawl slowly into bed, and the rest of the night would be spent sitting Indian-style on _Back to the Future _bedsheets, flipping quietly through a comic book. Sarah would order a pizza, and bring it to his room later. Sometimes she’d eat it with him. They wouldn’t talk about Mom. Or Dad. Sometimes they just wouldn’t talk.

When he turns away from puking his guts out from a hundred feet up in a Chicago alley and his manager’s yakking away at him (it’s just noise at this point—blends in with the ringing), suddenly he’s in the hallway again, with those damn creaking floorboards. And it’s so freaking weird, too, because it doesn’t actually _feel _any different. Feels like he’s been in the hallway for a while, actually. But he didn’t _know_ he was. Like…like…

And then there’s a glass of whiskey being thrust in his face, and he grabs it and swallows—because sure, yeah, fuck, whatever—and he’s walking and walking, and moving. And suddenly the stage lights hit him, and it isn’t until a few cheap laughs in when the first floorboard creaks.

He blinks at first, confused. Like he isn’t even sure what hit him. But it’s the principle of the thing. That he had thought about his mom _at all. _She’s fine, she divorced Dad, she lives in _Florida_, for Christ’s sake—(he’d tried to talk her out of that one—_"Mom, don’t move to fuckin’ Florida. I’ve prayed every night for ten straight years that climate change will just snap that little bitch off at the handle and send it sinking into the Atlantic, and if you move there I’ll feel real weird about it,”_—but she’d just laughed, tepidly, and ignored him.) —and she’s even sober now. They talk on the phone maybe once a month.

But he doesn’t think about her like _that_ anymore. In their house, from back when he was a kid. Before they’d packed up and skipped town to Oregon. It’s weird. It’s like, uh…fuzzy, you know? When people asked about where he grew up he’d blow a raspberry with his lips and say, _“Fuckin’ Maine”_, like it was the least interesting thing in the world, and then he’d say, _“but we moved to Portland the summer I turned 17” _and then he’d talk about that. _“You know, pot’s legal there now. They decided to wait until after I left, I guess. Fuck them, right?”_

Because lots of people don’t remember their childhoods. He was still, like, a fetus, you know. Brain barely even developed yet. He didn’t find it weird.

Just weird that, you know…he was thinking about it _now_. And that he could see it so clearly. Hot, orange afternoon. Floral-patterned couch. Shitty AC. Creaky floorboards.

Huh.

“I’m Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier—”

Then there’s another loud creak. This one sounds an awful lot like the word _faggot, _spat with vitriol across an arcade.

“Trashmouth…”

The last creak sounds like Eddie.

He finishes the show, by some miracle. Doesn’t even notice the heckling until his manager mentions it in passing later. Not one step off the stage, he pukes all over the floor.

** then **

The end of the summer of 1989 is the bittersweet sound of Alphaville playing softly from his dad’s red Chrysler convertible. 

It’s his sister Sarah behind the wheel, because she was seventeen and could drive, and liked Bev well enough. That was rare. Most girls didn’t, or so Richie understood. “_She let me borrow her makeup_,” Bev had told him ecstatically one day, bright-eyed and beaming, as if meeting Sarah had somehow been the greatest discovery of the modern era. Thirteen-year-old Richie had wrinkled his nose at her and turned back to whatever the hell he’d been saying to Stan. It was probably something about dicks. 

(Forty-year-old Beverly recounts Sarah’s kindness again at dinner, with sort of a sad smile, and a look like she might start crying. Richie remembers turning away from her that day, and feels kinda shitty.)

It’s Bev who’s in the backseat behind him, leaning back with a cigarette between two fingers. 

(Yeah. Yeah, that’s what Richie remembers. He remembers because her orange hair was flying and flapping around all over the place. Bill probably thought it looked _pretty _or some shit like that. Richie just remembers how she looked when she stepped _out _of the car. Like she’d been swept up in a tornado and dropped back down on her head. He’d laughed at the sight. A singular loud, obnoxious sound. Still nursing a cigarette between her lips, she’d given him the silent finger with one hand as she smoothed out her hair with the other.

That’s not true, though. He _does _remember her hair. He remembers thinking it was pretty. But it’s less about her and more about the moment.) 

All of them are piled into the car, some even perched on top of the seat so it’s all just a jumble of limbs back there (God, it’s a miracle any of them lived through their teens). Bev and Bill, Mike, Ben, Eds. And Stan. Most of them are…maybe not happy, but content just to _be._ Be together in that moment (which, whether they knew so or not, marked the beginning of the end of their childhoods). 

Bill and Ben look just about like they’re going to a funeral, which makes Richie wanna roll his eyes back into his skull. 

Bev’s suitcases are packed-to-bursting and stuffed in the trunk. They had helped her pack that whole morning. Richie had spent a half-hour trying to get the stupid things to close, because Bev was a girl, and girls (and Eddie) packed like maniacs. Eddie had come over and sat on the thing, dangling long legs off the side and looking real pleased with himself, like he was helping. Richie had yelled at him. _“Get off, dipshit. You weigh about twenty pounds soaking wet. You wanna help? Call Ben over here. Better yet—get on the horn and call your mother. We’ll have these babies zipped up in no time.”_

That car ride had felt like it was happening in slow-motion (or maybe that’s just how he remembers it). Richie sticks his right hand out from the passenger’s seat and lets the wind move through his fingers, just like it moved through Bev’s hair, because that made them the same. 

If she was free, then he could be too someday, if he wanted. Maybe he’d go out of state for college. Then they could drive _him _to the station one summer afternoon, and the losers would all weep and hug him, but all he’d do is smile, because he was about to get on a train and look back through the window as Derry passed him by faster and faster, until it was nothing at all. And he’d never, _ever, _have to go back again.

Bev’s leaning back in her seat now, like there isn’t a care in the whole world. So Richie does too—leans back in his seat so far that he can see Eddie looking back at him. He’s furrowing his brow and getting those wrinkles on the bridge of his nose from when he’s thinking really hard. He notices Richie staring and sticks his tongue out, and all Richie can do in response is wear a goofy grin. He kind of feels like he’s high. 

(Although, Richie won’t _actually _know what it feels like to be high until he’s seventeen. And it’s not a complete memory; more of a feeling. Like, he doesn’t remember actually putting the suitcases in the trunk, or even putting Bev on the train, or what it was that she had whispered in his ear when she pulled him in for one last hug. But it’s a nice memory. And he’s glad it’s the one that comes to him first, as he makes the drive from the airport to the hotel.)

Sarah reaches over and turns up the dial on the radio.

_ “Forever young _ , _I want to be forever young_. _Do you really want to live forever?”_

(Bev had been the first to leave.)

** now **

It’s a nice memory until Richie’s car is parked outside the Jade Orient. 

Then he’s taking a deep breath, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, and he’s just pissed. Because he can’t _fucking _figure it out. He doesn’t know _how _he could forget _Bev_. Come on, it…it’s _Bev._ They were…they were friends, right? Them and all the other Losers. Did he have a crush on her at some point? No—no, that doesn’t sound right. Not a big one, anyway. No feelings that were any more than what one normally felt when they knew Beverly Marsh. The girl knew how to make anyone feel special—like a million bucks. Girl, boy—didn’t matter. When you looked at Bev—talked to her, breathed the same air as her—you knew you were a lucky son of a bitch.

With he and Bev, though, it _had _been something else. Richie couldn’t put his finger on it, but…something more. Something really good. Warm. Easy smiles, his first smoke—from her pack of Lucky Strikes, and the headphones of her Walkman being placed gently over his head—so gently he had gotten tingles down his spine. 

He remembers in a flash laying on her bed one summer afternoon listening to Bowie (Bev had introduced him, and by extension, had been the catalyst for Richie’s impeccable taste in music for the rest of his life. He formally thanks her for this at dinner.). He remembers the easy way they would pass the headphones and cigarette between them—casual and unthinking, but somehow, it had felt like those two objects carried with them the weight of their entire friendship. Together that day, they had daydreamed about leaving Derry. Well, Richie thinks he mostly listened as Bev waxed poetic about all the shit she was gonna do once she got to Vermont, using him as a sounding board. He doesn’t remember minding.

It’s a weird memory, because he doesn’t really remember being very close to Bev outside of that moment. Maybe it had been one of those freak things—Stan at the synagogue and Eddie grounded for life after wiping his ass without asking Mrs. K for permission first. 

But he spots her pretty little orange head first. And his heart soars, and something makes Richie not say, _“Hey, Bev”, _but, _“Hey, _Bevvie”, as he pulls her in close and rocks her side-to-side, feeling warm. Warm like he had felt that day in her room. And he breathes in and is just _so happy _to find that her hair still smells the same—like apples and honey and good shit like that. But mostly he’s happy because it’s the first smell from his childhood he’s remembered in twenty-seven years. And now, Richie’s smiling so much that the stretch of his cheeks hurts (and he’d never admit it but his eyes were a little glossy), and he catches himself thinking that _maybe _this reunion thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

_ Bevvie. _

_ Bevvie, Bevvie, Bevvie _ . It feels right. The way she smiles when he says it feels right. It feels right when she answers, _“Hey, Good Lookin’”, _with a smile that’s pretty and all-teeth. Like they were sharing something that was just _them_, and no one else, even if they both looked at each other now and still couldn’t _fully _remember what it was.

Ben’s there, and that’s a thing. He doesn’t have the memories of Ben that he has of Bev—at least not yet—but he’s got the same kind eyes that Richie remembers, and that’s comforting. Also: rock-hard abs, which is super nice, especially when he pulls Richie in for a bear-hug that reeks of love and sincerity.

So, it’s all going well. And it continues going well (even the small talk that Richie usually fucking hates as they walk in the door: _“How are you? Where are you living now, out in L.A.? I think I saw you scrolling through Netflix—I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you!”_) until they walk into the back room.

And then, that two p.m. airport Cinnabon feels like it wants to come back up.

** then **

“God, you suck so bad, Staniel Uris.”

“It’s not my fault, Rich. My grandma’s staying for the whole weekend and I can’t—”

“I fucking hate you. Your _grandma_? That’s why you can’t stay over?”

Richie’s pissed, and rightfully so. His parents got him an NES for Christmas, and here Stan is, squandering it for the sake of lame old Grandma Uris. Richie had begun to acknowledge that Stan was about as boring as a pile of rocks, and was, frankly, willing to accept that about him considering he was just about the only kid other than Bill who was willing to put up with him. And Bill was under obligation to, seeing as he and Richie had grown up together since they were still in the crib sucking on thumbs, so he didn’t count. But _this _was taking it to a whole other level.

Maybe it was a Jew thing. Maybe Stan just didn’t—couldn’t—understand the sacred time all best friends _must_ set aside to check out each other’s Christmas gifts after coming back from winter break.

Stanley, rolling his eyes, continues fishing his backpack out of his locker. “Why don’t you ask Bill to stay over?”

Richie gestures vaguely around the school hallway, eyes wide and exasperated. “I’m sorry, do you remember seeing Bill today? No, Stanley, use your head, he’s fucking at home, dying of the Black Plague.”

“Really?” Stanley asks, but it’s dry and irritated. Not like the voice that comes from behind Richie: shocked, high-pitched and damn-near hysterical—kinda like a girl, Richie thinks briefly, before he turns around.

It’s not a girl. It looks like a small, angry garden gnome. Wearing a blue polo and tiny pink shorts.

And a fanny pack.

“No, dipshit. Not really. He’s got, like, a cold. That plague shit’s only in Africa or something,” Richie says.

“I think it was Europe—” Stan maybe says behind him, but Richie isn’t really listening anymore.

“Are you sure?” the gnome asks, its eyes dark brown and wide, with arms clenched tightly around books that it’s hugging to its chest. “Because my mommy says diseases can travel, because rats carry diseases, and bugs too, and they can come across the ocean on—”

Richie’s already doubled over in laughter, wiping fake tears from his eyes, making a show of it being funnier than it actually is.

“Get a load of this kid, Staniel! Still calls his mom _‘mommy’!”_

The gnome stomps his right foot, which is not intimidating and actually kind of cute, and only makes Richie laugh harder.

“Why’s that funny? We’re nine. Plenty of kids still call their mom that.”

“Alright, yeah, you keep telling yourself that—"

“You’re an asshat,” the kid snaps at him. And Richie stops laughing—immediately, like he’d been slapped.

Then, he starts beaming.

“What did you just call me?”

“An _asshat_.Like an _ass _that’s a _hat. _An _ass_—”

Richie’s arm is already slung around the kid’s shoulder. Stan, confused and frowning, trails behind them, struggling to keep up as they start walking away.

“Yeah, yeah, no, I heard you. It was fantastic. Hey, kid, what’s your name?”

“Eddie,” then there’s a frown and a skeptical pause, as if Eddie doesn’t really want to give out his last name. Like Richie’s gonna sell his information to the KGB or something. “…Kaspbrak.”

Richie smiles, and looks out to the schoolyard in thought.

“Huh. Eddie,” he says, taking the name for a test-drive in his head, running it around in his brain over and over and over again until the point where it _almost _doesn’t sound like a real word anymore. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…_Eddie Spaghetti!_”

Richie gasps, as if having made some great discovery, which he absolutely had. Eddie—less enthused—purses his lips in an almost-frown, as if trying to decide exactly _how much_ he hated the new name.

Richie extends his hand, still smiling.

“Richie Tozier. Pleasure to meet you, Eds. Say, you’re not doing anything this weekend, are you?”

“Well actually, my mom was gonna take me to get vaccinated and refill my prescriptions and then on Sunday she has this church thing and she wanted me to come with so she could show me off to her new bible study friends. Also please don’t call me Eds that’s not my—”

“So nothing important, then. Perfect. Do you like video games?”

Eddie doesn’t, actually, know jack-all about video games, but he nods anyway. And somehow (in a feat which will only seem more and more impressive to Richie the more that he learns about Mrs. Kaspbrak), he sweet-talks his mom into letting him stay at Richie’s for the weekend. 

** now **

Eddie has turned around and is facing him.

Richie determines that it must be the blue polo he’s wearing which sets off the memory—which seems like it actually might be a carbon-copy of the one he remembers. Or maybe that wasn’t what he was wearing back then at all, and it’s just that everything where Eddie’s concerned from here on out is a big huge clusterfuck of what’s _now_ and what’s _then _that Richie can’t really piece it all together right. 

Because suddenly Eddie’s _looking _at him and Richie starts to remember a _lot more _that he’s pretty sure he’d rather _fucking forget. _Ghosts of things—of memories—accumulating so slowly and with such an awful and confusing weight and mystery to them that the next minute and a half feels like a ticking time bomb. 

And there’s this irritating, nagging feeling centered in the pit of his stomach that maybe isn’t nausea but certainly feels like it. 

When the dam of initial awkwardness breaks and Richie, Bevvie and Ben start taking the slow steps towards the other three, and Eddie’s hand claps firmly on Richie’s shoulder, searing through his leather jacket all the way through to his skin and the way it feels makes Richie want to die—that’s when he’s pretty sure that this reunion was actually a huge fucking mistake. 

They don’t hug, not at first. It’s awkward. It’s so, terribly fucking awkward, and the worst part is that neither of them knows why. 

…Except Richie thinks he’s starting to. 

But he just…

He can’t…

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie says, in a nervous sort of way that must speak only to the fact that they both remember that they _were_ best friends, but not how or why or anything meaningful or significant about the other person at all.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie responds, because it feels right.

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that, dickwad,” he says, and he shoves him a little. But his lips, slowly but surely, pull into an easy smile.

And then the bomb goes off.

Because, _oh._

Yeah.

The force of it would’ve sent him stumbling backwards with the air punched right out of his chest except Eddie _does _pull him in for a hug then. It’s barely comfortable. Stiff, with a few odd pats to each other’s backs. They pull back, and Richie averts his eyes the first chance he gets, swallowing hard.

“Alright, let’s get some fuckin’ booze in here, huh?” he asks, loud and boisterous, anything to _distract distract distract oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, _and the rest of the Losers seem to agree wholeheartedly.

In reality, it’s the sudden urge to drink so much that he blacks out. Maybe he’ll give himself brain damage and he’ll erase Derry, Maine from his brain permanently. Do people still do lobotomies? Like black-market lobotomies? Is that a thing? 

Turns out, the nagging feeling wasn’t nausea. It was more of a full-body ache.

** then **

(It’s one of those things that’d always been there, even when there were no words or names or faces to place it.) 

It’s there with the guys Richie hooks up with in the mid-late nineties; in the backseats of shitty old cars or in bedrooms with the lights turned off. Most of them turn out to be straight. Or, at least, they never claim to be otherwise outside of when they have their cocks down Richie’s throat. He never actually likes any of them. But by his twenties, sex is always just about another warm body. 

It’s there in the hot, quick hook-ups in bathroom stalls of Chicago gay bars. (He remembers sitting alone at the bar, staring across at the back of the head of some short, dark-haired twink, squinting hard, just…trying to figure something out. He never knew what it was. A feeling. A ghost. Lost to him forever.)

But it’s more, too. It’s there when he’s alone. Alone in his L.A. condo at 11 or 12 at night, flat on his back and smoking pot. Times when he wonders if he’s gotten too comfortable in loneliness. If he’s stayed there so long that he no longer knows he’s miserable. If there had ever been a time that he _hadn’t _felt that way. Eventually he passes it off as his _nighttime depression hours_, turns over and tries to fall asleep, faintly tossing around the idea that he go out and get a cat. (He never does.)

(Now, most definitely, he remembers it being there the day he left Derry. It’s still not a whole memory. But he remembers that ache.

How upset he’d been, that this moment he’d waited for his _whole fucking life_ had been ruined by a pair of dumb brown doe-eyes.)

It’s another lazy summer afternoon, four years after Bev leaves. Only they’re not at the train station, but standing outside the Tozier house. He remembers going down the line, as Bev had done. Only the line is shorter now. Instead of six, it’s three. It’s Mike he hugs first, which is nice, because Mike’s hugs make him feel very safe, and give him just a modicum of courage to face the other two. 

Then Stan. Stan’s hug is long, and wordless, and carries so much with it that Richie could never express out loud.

Then…

When he gets to Eddie, he pauses. A long, painful hesitation. Eddie looks up, expectantly. Angrily? (No, no—that can’t be right.)

Richie doesn’t hug him.

Instead, he ruffles his hair. And claps a firm hand on his shoulder.

Eddie doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t swat him away. Doesn’t say, _“Knock it off, shit-for-brains,”_. He just keeps staring at him, eyes red. And…no, definitely, _definitely _angry.

But not the fun kind. Not the kind that really meant, _“Push my buttons more, Richie. Call me Eds. Eddie Spaghetti. Joke about having sex with my mom. Make fun of my short shorts. Push me off the hammock. Because that’s who we are, and what we do, and how we’ve said the hard shit to each other since we were kids and didn’t know the right words. Because _‘Hey, Eds’_ means _‘You’re my favorite person in the whole world’_ and _‘Don’t call me that’_ means _‘You’re mine, too.’” 

This, somehow, Richie knew, was a different kind of Eddie anger. A language that was brand new between them and that Richie was only just now starting to understand. It was so different, though. This new way they communicated. It felt like everything was more confusing, and complicated, and intense. And upsetting. And that no matter how hard Richie _tried _to understand, every day it felt like Eddie was more an enigma to him than he had ever been before. 

But maybe that’s because they weren’t kids anymore, and things just weren’t the same, and maybe things _hadn’t _been the same since that summer—and certainly never would be again after Richie got in that car. And Eddie _knew it_.

Richie frowns. He hurts. He hurts like _hell_, but to admit that—to lean in and grab Eddie, to bury his nose in the crook of his neck and rub a soothing hand down his back, to try and tell him it’s alright—not only would it probably be a lie, it would be…

Richie might never leave. And he _has to_. 

So Richie backs away. And _Eddie_, looks…

(At dinner at the Jade Orient, the waitress opens the wine bottle. Bev laughs in delight. Mike politely takes the bottle; starts pouring for everyone. Eddie holds up his glass eagerly, a bright smile stretched across his face. Richie watches him as he remembers, and it hurts _so bad _that he has to shut his eyes and breathe deep before he gets another fucking migraine.

_ Please, God, forgive me, _ he thinks, twenty-seven years too late_._)

Eddie looks like Richie just shot his dog in front of him. 

He didn’t have a dog of course, since his atrocious cunt of a mom convinced him he was allergic to, like, the _planet_, but…still. That’s just about what it looks like.

It’s the last memory of Derry that Richie has: that broken look on Eddie’s face. 

After, he turns away and climbs into the driver’s seat of his shitty green pick-up, which he will drive behind his parents’ station wagon all the way to Portland. He does not look out the window and watch Derry fade into nothing, as he had once dreamed of doing. Because then he would catch sight of Eddie again, and that would be too much. He sits in his seat, hunched over, and stares down at his hands.

(When Richie opens his eyes, after no more than a second or two, he quickly looks away. He whispers some clever joke in Bevvie’s ear and she laughs—a wide-mouthed shriek. Smirking and proud of himself, Richie reaches for his wine.

He doesn’t see Eddie’s questioning stare in his periphery, but he feels the weight of it.)

** now **

He sees the ring long, _long_ before he says anything about it. It’s embarrassing how long, actually. It’s the ring that has him calling for shots. He’s on his second blowjob when the liquid courage hits.

“Wait—Eddie, you got _married_?”

He doesn’t actually know how it sounds coming out. If he were sober, he’d be scared shitless. Definitely more careful than this, and probably not attempting to broach that subject _at all._ It’s none of his business. Why would it be his business? It’s not. Why the fuck does he care if Eddie’s married? He doesn’t know Eddie. Well—he did, once. Twenty-seven fucking years ago. But that doesn’t matter now, and it _shouldn’t _bother him. 

By Eddie’s angry, furrowing brow line and suddenly stiff back, he’s guessing it ended up sounding like an insult, which comes as a fucking relief.

“Yeah, why’s that so fuckin’ funny, dickwad?”

_ It’s not _ , Richie thinks, at the very same time that he thinks, _it is. _It’s the fuckin’ funniest thing in the whole fuckin’ world. The biggest, meanest, cosmic joke he’s ever heard. The God Richie doesn’t believe in is _pissing_ himself laughing up in that big gay bar in the sky. Richie could never write a joke this good.

Instead of saying any of that, the trash that comes directly from his brain and out his mouth without passing through even, like, a _single _filter, is:

“W-what, to like, a woman?”

_ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Why did you say that. Why the fuck would you—God, fuck you and your stupid fuckin’— _

“Fuck you, bro. Fuck you.”

“Fuck _you!”_

** then **

“I don’t know what the fuck would ever possess someone to get married.”

Eddie’s mom dragged him to the wedding of some dumb aunt of his who lives upstate. He’s gone the whole weekend. Which is a really good deal for Richie, actually, because no one’s fighting him for that sweet hammock real estate. He gets to sit and read his comics in peace. No feet in his face, kicking his glasses off, or long legs caging him in, framing him, making him claustrophobic, feeling like he’s about to have one of Eddie’s dumb fake asthma attacks. So, he’s actually in a really good mood.

“Jesus, Richie, who shit in your cereal this morning?”

“Yeah, no one was talking to you, _Staniel_.”

Stan squints in irritation and gestures vaguely to the rest of the clubhouse.

“You just said that to the _air. _I assumed it was open for anyone to—”

“Well, you’re wrong. It wasn’t. I was talking to Bev.”

Bev doesn’t look up from filing her nails.

“I don’t know. Love, I guess,” she says with a shrug.

Richie scoffs. “Alright, show of hands: whose parents were ever in _love?”_

He says the word _love _like it’s a stupid girl thing. Even though it’s not, and Bev knows him well enough to give him a pointed side-eye. Because he’s told her too much. Bared _just _too much of his soul for her not to be suspicious.

And although he tries not to think about it now, and he loves Bev, and knows better than to think that she would judge him for it, sometimes it has him breaking out into spontaneous, sweaty panic.

At the impromptu poll, everyone sort of just looks at each other with disinterest. No one raises their hands.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was _that_ addressed to everyone?” Stan asks, and Richie could just kill him on the spot.

“Yeah, Stan, that was fucking addressed to—”

Stan raises his hand. “Okay, then I do. My parents were—_are_ in love. I think.”

“Great, Stan, just great. Well, you’re beat five to one, so—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ben starts. “Can I take back my vote? I don’t think my parents were ever in love but that doesn’t mean I think marriage is, like, bullshit.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben asks, nervously, as if Richie doesn’t know that he probably has his and Bev’s wedding all planned out. Along with some kids’ names, just in case. “Marriages can be good. Not all of ‘em sure, but when you really love someone, like—"

“It’s cute that you’re a romantic, Ben, but we’re talking real life shit here.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Richie,” Bev comes to his rescue, of course. Then she turns. “What do you think about it, Stan?”

Stanley shakes his head. “No. Forget it. I don’t wanna say anything if Rich is gonna be a dick about it.”

_ “That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” _ he thinks about saying. He’s primed and ready to let it loose, too, before Bev says: “He won’t,” with another cutting, pointed look to the hammock. One glance between Bevvie and Stan, and Richie gives in. (In all honesty, Richie realizes that there probably was _nothing_ he wouldn’t do where those two were concerned. He could stop being a dick for five seconds. Hell, he’d go celibate and sober if they bothered him enough. Not that they ever would. And anyway, Richie hadn’t and wouldn’t ever admit that to either of them. It’d go to their head, and he couldn’t have that.)

“I won’t, Stanley the Man-ley. Scout’s honor. At least until we leave the clubhouse, then it’s fair game to call you a pussy.”

Stan gives an irritated scoff, but starts talking anyway.

“Well, I don’t know, I just…I just think, sure, maybe it’s not for everyone. And maybe people who think they’re in love aren’t really, and then they get stuck together and are miserable forever. And…have kids that are miserable because they have to watch _them _be miserable. I’m not that naïve, okay, I get how it works sometimes.”

Richie nods along. That sounds about like the point he was trying to make.

“But I also think that…just, as a general rule, when you’ve got something good, you gotta hold onto it. Otherwise…otherwise you risk losing it. And then you just have nothing,” Stan says, and Richie suddenly thinks this whole conversation has taken a kind of depressing turn. “And you’re alone. And that…that sounds way worse to me.”

Bev smiles in her very warm way. “Better to have loved and lost…” she says, and doesn’t finish the sentence. Ben lifts his head and beams at her, looking kind of like a puppy. Richie thinks it’s an awful sad sight.

“I would only marry Pamela Anderson,” Richie says with a shrug, and Bill looks up from the book he’s reading to throw a pillow at his head.

** now **

“Hey, where’s Stan?”

It’s shouted out as a casual ask over the punch-drunk laughter and excited conversations of the dinner table. For some reason, it sucks the whole room dry. None of them know why, and, like the rest of this goddamn night, it’s the not knowing that’s so weirdly unnerving.

Before anyone else, because he’s Richie and because that’s _what he does_, he’s sputtering out the first garbage in his head that sounds vaguely like a joke. “Stan’s a pussy,” he says, “Why the hell would _he_ come back? No. No, he’s at home, dude.” _(Dying of the Black Plague)_

(Later, in his room at the town house, Richie will reflect back on this and push over a lamp in anger, shattering it to pieces on the ground and cutting his thumb on the ceramic. He’ll sit on his bed, suck on the blood and fight back tears. _Why. Why the fuck does he always have to open his mouth always have to say some dumb shit always have to—)_

It’s all a gradual build to _demonic murderous clown_ after that. At first, it’s a moment of disturbing silence, where they all sit there wondering if some _really _weird shit got slipped into all their drinks. The eyeball fortune cookies and flying bats sort of help them get the rest of the way.

(_Guess Stan Could Not **Cut It**)_

Hearing that…Stan’s dead is…it’s…it’s…well.

Richie doesn’t let himself feel it until—

(Sobbing, and dry heaving, and more sobbing, gasping for air, never able to breathe in enough, collapsed on the floor, shaking violently, and, _“God, _why_—Eds, he was my best friend, he was my best fuckin’ friend in the whole world, and I never told him, he didn’t know—that son of a bitch, why would he do that—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Eds, why would he—")_

But now, because Richie’s a selfish bastard and way too old to learn how to be anything else, it’s about getting the _fuck _out.

He knew Mike. He remembered Mike fairly well now—or so he fucking thought. He didn’t remember him being a crazy son of a bitch with a death wish. Nope, that memory sure as shit hadn’t resurfaced yet. In fact, he kind of remembered that being _Bill_. Good ol’ Bill _“H-h-h-hey there, fellow thirteen-year-olds, let’s go spelunking in the Neibolt house and pick a fight with the killer clown from hell who ate my brother” _Denbrough. And now, Bill’s the one actually talking _sense_.

Or—more aptly—stuttering sense. Because his stutter had come back. Just like that, in the middle of dinner. Along with that stupid fucking clown.

** then **

_(I know your secret your dirty little secret don’t touch the other boys Richie or they’ll **know**)_

They should have known something was wrong after that first fucking phone call.

Because Bevvie had said. She’d promised, like they all had—not just with blood on that one fated summer afternoon, but with her smiles, and kindness, and with Ziggy Stardust flowing beautifully through the headphones of her Walkman. And people who loved you—really loved you—didn’t break promises.

She had written down a date, and a time, and they had all gathered at Bill’s house to wait for the call.

They all looked pretty pathetic—six boys huddling around the landline sitting on the kitchen island, boring holes into it with their stares, as if that would somehow make her call any sooner.

Bill picks up halfway through the first ring, so fast he nearly drops the damn thing on the hard linoleum floor and breaks it. It’s a good thing he didn’t, too, ‘cause then Richie might’ve had to strangle him.

“H-h-h-hello?" 

Nothing.

And then…

_“…Bill?”_

“B-B-Bev! How are you? How’s s-s-sunny Vermont?”

The Losers are hanging on every word. Richie thinks Bill’s smile is pretty goofy for someone who got the girl and then got dumped within the span of a single month, but he’s too happy to hear Bevvie’s voice to tease him about it.

_“Bill Denbrough?”_ she asks, and Bill blinks. Everyone…blinks.

“Y-y-yeah, silly. O-of course.”

There is a pause on the other end of the line that is, Richie decides, too long.

_“Right,”_ Bev says. _“Right, of course. Bill. Sorry, I…”_

Bev trails off. Richie looks at Mike, and Mike looks at Ben and so on, and they’re all sort of side-eyeing each other, as if the person to their right could easily explain away why Bev’s acting so fucking weird.

_(We all float down here Richie come float with us Richie **truth or dare truth or dare truth or dare**)_

But then, like a switch, she’s back. The chime of her laughter sounds through the phone. There’s a part of Richie that thinks it sounds a little off, but the sound is still so pretty and familiar and Bev that he forgets.

_“I guess Vermont’s got me tired. Oh, Bill, you’d love it. It’s wonderful here. There’s so much to do, so many people here…”_

She keeps talking and they all just listen and smile, the strangeness completely forgotten, because it’s so good just listening to her.

_“Holy shit! Are the rest of the guys there with you?”_

They all call out, “Yeah”, “Hell, yeah!”, “Yeah, we’re here, Bev!”

_“That’s amazing! I can’t believe you all remembered! Well, how is—”_

Then a voice echoes in the background on Bev’s line.

_“Bevvie, honey? Who are you talking to?”_ It’s a woman. Must be her aunt.

_“Bill Denbrough!”_

The next few words from Bev’s aunt are pretty hard to make out, but all the boys still strain to hear them anyway. Whatever she says, it sounds like a question. Then Bev says:

_“Wh-what? Didn’t I tell you about…?”_ There’s quiet. _“Well of course I mentioned Bill. A-and the Losers? My friends from…from…”_

Richie doesn’t know why then, but something about Bevvie’s voice makes his blood run cold. 

(Richie remembers it now. Remembers why. It was because, for a reason none of them could have parsed, she sounded scared.

Richie wonders if maybe, because of that phone call, she had been the only one of them to actually _feel_ the memories slipping away, and he hurts for her.)

_“From…”_

And she can’t say it. The name won’t come. 

And they all know, then. As they all—slowly—raise their heads to look each other in the eye. They know it’s the clown.

That’s when Bill drops the phone on the ground, and it does shatter this time, and he looks up at them, shocked, wide-eyed, and insists through his stammer that the voice in the phone had started to sound like Georgie, and _how had they not heard that too?_

Then Stan yelps and jumps out of his seat, backing up against the wall, babbling about how the counter is covered in spiders.

Mike starts hyperventilating and can’t articulate why. Eddie, hands grabbing onto his shoulders, tries to offer his inhaler, but Mike just keeps shaking his head no, and then he starts crying.

Ben starts shouting, “It’s not real! Guys, it’s not real!”, but Richie can hardly hear him. The rest of the kitchen starts to melt away. Richie’s eyes are fixed out the back door.

A red balloon floats past. A song plays faintly in his head, and it might be the sad, longing cries of Robert Smith. (And then Richie remembers his second smell. He remembers the smell of the sewers.)

_(**Beep beep**, Richie)_

** now **

“First words out of your mouth shoulda been, _‘Hey, man! Wanna come to Derry and get murdered?’_ ‘Cause then I would’ve said _no_.”

He’s being a bitch about the whole thing, and he knows he is—knows what hurt looks like in Mike’s eyes—but that’s fine. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he can forget again, and then none of this will matter anyway. That’s what he tells himself as he walks to his rental, thumbing through his keys with shaking hands until he gets a grip on the fob, and presses the button so the headlights flash, illuminating Eddie in bright white light, making him shout.

“Fuck, Rich, warn a guy! Jesus!” And then, muttered under his breath: _“Asshole.”_

Richie hadn’t even noticed Eddie was following him—but then again, why should he be surprised? It’s all the little twerp did their entire childhood. At some point between the ages of nine and ten Richie had learned to stop jumping out of his skin whenever he turned and saw that a tiny, fanny-packed gremlin had silently appeared behind him, and instead, had learned to feel just a little bit empty in his absence. 

But Richie, as usual, couldn’t let the silence go unchecked.

“Following me back to my hotel room? I hate to disappoint you Eds, but I don’t put out on the first date.” (A bold-faced lie. But…well, y’know.)

“Beep-fucking-beep, Richie.” And Eddie probably (thankfully) can’t see the wince that flashes across Richie’ face. “This town only has the one goddamn hotel. I’m following you back. Like, out of convenience, but also because I’m pretty sure your BAC is well-over the legal limit.”

“Yeah, not a problem anymore, Eduardo. Nothin’ like a demon clown to sober you up quick, amirite?”

“—And then I’m fuckin’ out of here. Same as you.”

_(train station eddie’s face bev in the backseat winter fire rich why won’t you look at me you don’t know what you’re talking about **I hate you**)_

“Oh,” Richie says, dumbly. “Right. Well, get your little ass in gear, and let’s go.”

Eddie climbs in his car and turns on the engine, and once the radio’s started, Richie thinks he hears a song playing that turns his throat dry.

“Hey, uh…” he starts. “That song…”

Eddie stops; looks up at him questioningly through the open passenger-side window.

“That The Cure?”

Eddie frowns deep, then shrugs. “Yeah, I think.”

Before he can open his stupid fucking mouth again, Richie just nods and gets in his stupid fucking car.

** then **

Three raps at Eddie’s bedroom window meant it was Richie.

It got to the point where he no longer even had to turn and look up from the book he was reading. Eddie’d hear the knocks, get up and walk—nose still in the book—to the window, which he’d unlatch and push open, before returning to his desk and sitting right back down. All while Richie grunted and moaned his way from the drainage pipe to lying flat on his back on Eddie’s bedroom floor. 

(In contrast, Richie remembers fondly the _first_ time he’d made the climb—showing up in the middle of the night, Eddie rushing to the window, brown eyes rife with concern as he grabbed onto one of Richie’s arms and helped pull him through the window with great care. 

_“What’d you do that for, ‘Chee?”_ he’d asked as he kneeled to place a neon green Band-Aid on Richie’s scraped knee. 

Richie had shrugged, looking anywhere but down at Eddie. 

_“Wanted to see you ‘s all.”_

It was more than that, of course. It had been a run-in with Bowers that he’d really wanted to forget, and the awful panging sensation that came from Eddie’s mom not letting him go to school for a week because he’d caught a cold.)

Today, there was no reason at all. Not really, anyway. Save for the fact that Eddie was _studying_, and whenever that happened, it was Richie Tozier’s personal mission from God to make sure it _didn’t_.

Richie has finally situated himself lying down on the bed, tossing a baseball above his head and catching it over and over again because he’s that _fucking bored_.

The only _not-boring_ thing about the room right now is Eddie’s boombox on the end table, which is softly playing “I Wanna Dance with Somebody”, and Richie’s trying, really trying to just zone out and listen to the music and fucking relax—but it’s just not happening. But let it be known that he tried.

“Whatcha readin’ about, _Spuh-geds?_”

“How to fuck your mom,” he quips, without even looking up.

“Aw, that one wasn’t even any good. Come on, Eds. You can do better. I trained you, for Christ’s sake! You’re like my Padawan!”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “I’m busy.”

“Oh, busy _my ass_. You are the only person in Mrs. Meyer’s second period history class who has _opened_ that textbook. Come on, live a little!”

“It’s actually really interesting, and you would know that if you studied at all.”

“Yeah, but I don’t. Got other things on the brain, Kaspbrak. Like cars, and movies, and chicks—like what the hell I’m gonna get your mom for our five-year anniversary coming up.” Which was true in a _sort of_ way. It was actually he and _Eddie’s_ five-year anniversary. Today. Of meeting each other. Which Richie knew, of course, but Eddie probably didn’t, and it wasn’t like Richie was gonna bring it up. Because that would be weird.

Eddie groans. “Ugh, beep beep—”

“You think it’d be enough if I just wrapped my dick in a bow for her and called it a day? My wallet’s running a little on empty.”

“Jesus, Richie, you’re so fucking sick—"

“You love it.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything to that, but Richie can see that he’s smiling and trying to hide it, which makes Richie smile, too. Then Eddie says:

“You don’t even need to study, Rich. But some of us do. You’re just so fucking smart.”

Richie frowns, and stops tossing the baseball. “What does _that_ mean?”

“You don’t have to pretend, Richie. I’ve seen your grades.”

Richie makes a dismissive noise, blowing hair away from his face. But it’s hard to argue at this point. What can he say—the proof’s in the pudding.

“I used to be so jealous of you,” Eddie starts. The unfamiliar sound of complete and utter sincerity in his voice makes Richie’s eyebrows threaten to shoot off the top of his head in shock. “After we first met. Of how smart you are. You would raise your hand in class and just _know things,_ and I’d have no idea how you knew them. And I knew you didn’t try. I got really frustrated. Kept thinking I was stupid for a while.”

When Eddie sounds like he’s not going to continue anymore, Richie thinks he croaks: “A-and then? What changed?”

Eddie looks like he tenses up a bit. He coughs, clearing his throat. 

“Um, I don’t know.” He pauses. “I guess you…you always treated me like I was the most interesting person in the world. So, I…I guess that meant something, you know. Couldn’t be stupid if you thought I was cool enough to hang out with.”

Richie is frozen to the bed.

He doesn’t know what to do with this—the way Eddie’s been acting lately. It’s fucking weird. He says things that are…like…_nice?_ And not _angry?_ To be honest, he’d had half a mind to go running to Mrs. Kaspbrak, yelling about how, for once, there was something actually, _legitimately_ wrong with her son. Like, maybe _cancer_. Or something equally as horrible, because this was not _fucking normal._

What’s weirder is that they don’t speak after that. Afternoon moves into nighttime, and Richie’s still on Eddie’s bed, still running over every interaction they’ve had in the last month. Eddie’s still at his desk. Silence with Eddie was weird if it lasted for this long. Silence with anyone was weird, because it was Richie, and Richie’s specialty was filling silences. Well, anyone who wasn’t Bev, that is. Silence with Bev was always nice. Peaceful. Happy.

But Bevvie was gone. So.

That’s when Richie hears the soft _thud_ of a closing book, and the light creaking of wood as Eddie turns slightly in his chair.

“Okay. I’m done.”

“Um,” Richie says in return, and then, because his brain is so very Good, it comes up with brilliant follow-ups, like: “Yeah, um.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, and it sounds so good and sweet and gentle that Richie actually has a hard time registering it as _Eddie_.

“Y-yeah?” Richie says, in his best Bill Denbrough impression.

“Scoot over.”

This is good. This is normal. They used to always sleep head-to-toe like this. This is really good. Maybe things aren’t different. Maybe Richie’s just imagining it. He gets in his head, sometimes, especially with Eddie, and maybe he’s—

But once Richie scoots over, it’s _not_ so that Eddie can crawl in head-to-toe. He’s facing him. He’s lying in bed, on the pillow next to him, and he’s _facing_ him. And Richie can feel his breath on his face. He doesn’t remember ever being this close to Eddie before. Not like…not like…_this_.

“I know what today is, you know.”

“O-oh. Yeah?” Richie’s voice is so high-pitched it probably sounds like a girl’s.

“Yeah, dumbass. ‘Course I do.”

Then, Eddie sits up in bed and Richie instantly misses him.

“Hold on. Got you something.”

At this point, Richie’s so gone it’s not even funny. His dumb ass is just sitting there, stupefied, with the biggest, dopiest eyes, watching as Eddie darts across the room and starts rifling through his closet. And there’s this weight in the pit of his stomach that he can’t just ignore anymore now that he knows what it is. He’s so gone that he can’t even be bothered to care or even think about how obvious it must look. How Eddie must be able to take one look at him and just _know_. 

His biggest fear in the whole world. And he’s so gone for Eddie Kaspbrak—here, in this moment—that he can’t even remember to be afraid of it.

Eddie gets back up on the bed and starts crawling back towards him, and Richie swallows, and adjusts his glasses.

Once Eddie’s in front of him—both sitting on their knees now—he doesn’t do anything except wordlessly hold out the gift—a photo with a tiny red bow taped to the back of it—to Richie. Richie gives his sweaty palms a quick wipe on his jeans before grabbing onto it and flipping it over.

It’s a picture from that first Christmas—Eddie at his place, sitting in front of the couch with Richie, playing with his new Nintendo. They had these big, cheesy smiles on their faces, both of which were missing quite a few teeth. In the margins of the Polaroid, in Eddie’s (what can only be described as pretty) handwriting, is written: _Rich and Eds’ First Play-Date: Jan ’86._

_(_He doesn’t know where the picture is anymore. Probably in one of the many boxes of memorabilia his parents had packed that either moved with them or got thrown out. And why would they keep it? With the face of a kid they couldn’t even remember. It’s probably in a landfill by now. 

If Richie thinks about it too long, it makes him upset.)

Richie thinks he is quiet for a long time.

Apparently, it’s too long.

“Um…Rich?” Eddie chirps. “Are you…are you gonna say something, or…?”

It’s moments like these where Richie has to be really careful. As in _really_ careful. Because something bad could happen. Something really bad that he could never take back. It’s extra hard when he finally looks up from the picture to see Eddie, looking at him _like that_ with stupidly big eyes and a bottom lip that’s red because he’d been biting it raw in his nervousness.

“Uh—um, Eddie, you know, I…” his voice breaks, raw with tears that he’s not going to let fall because—just—_no_, and he swears at himself, but he has to finish his thought or else it’s _really_ obvious. “This is great, but you already know, I mean, all I could afford to get you was my dick wrapped in a bow, so—"

Eddie smacks his arm, which he more or less deserves. 

(He doesn’t remember how or why it started. If it was just the contact—Eddie’s hand on his skin—_Jesus, how pathetic would that be?_

All he remembers is what he heard next:)

A soft, sweet little gasp, then: “Hey…Rich…Rich, are you _crying?_”

“Shut the fuck up—no, I’m not, I just…I….” he’s hidden his face—expertly—in his hands. 

“It’s okay if you are.”

“I’m not, it’s just…allergies.”

“It’s not, though.”

“Yeah? Fuck you. You don’t know.”

“Come ‘ere. Please, just…”

And then Eddie is holding him, and rocking him, and Richie’s fingers are digging into the soft cotton of the back of his shirt, and how scared he is is being very much drowned out by how good this feels. 

Eddie doesn’t quite give those hugs that Ben gives, that have you feeling real warm and happy and good about yourself. Or even the ones that Bevvie gives—_gave_—that send tingles down your spine and make you never ever want to let go, because being hugged by her just sort of makes everything seem okay.

Eddie gives hugs that ruin a person. 

Because it’s just about the most full-on, prolonged contact that he and Richie have ever shared. And Richie thinks enjoying it as much as he is makes him a real fucking masochist, because the longer it goes on, the more he starts to worry about the very real possibility of his pants tightening as a result of it, and Eddie feeling it, and thinking how disgusting it is, and kicking Richie out of his bedroom with a horrified look on his face, and never speaking to him again—let alone hugging him. 

He tries to tell himself that Eddie wouldn’t do that. Eddie would never. And it’s an admittedly easier thing to convince himself of when Eddie’s hugging him like this. Because the longer Eddie holds him, the longer Richie can pretend that maybe—with the sincerity and the photo and the fingers currently running through the strands of his hair and massaging his scalp—Eddie is feeling the same things he’s feeling. Even though he definitely isn’t. 

(From that day on, it’s impossible to be in the same space as Eddie and _not_ think about doing it again.)

** now **

Richie and Eddie’s rooms at the town house are next to each other.

So it’s a bit of an awkward beat as they both reach the doors to their rooms and pull out their keys at the same time. Again—neither of them knows why, but they share a look, which Richie classifies as being…absolutely…definitely…_something_, before opening, entering, and promptly shutting the doors behind them.

Richie’s packing like an absolute fiend, like his life depended on it—and, well, it does. He probably forgets, like, a toothbrush or something, but _hey_, he thinks, _what-the-fuck-ever. Better that than going to pack it and having it transform before his eyes into some metaphoric personification of all his very gay, repressed childhood feelings. Or another eyeball._

God, fuck that clown.

His mistake—as, y’know, it usually is—is waiting for Eddie. 

If he hadn’t waited, he’d be fucking _gone_. Gone before he ever had to hear or see Bev crying about Stan. Gone before he’d ever heard _“I’ve seen all of us die,”_. Gone. Outta there. And tomorrow morning, he’d be waking up hungover in L.A. saying, _“Eddie Kaspbrak who?”_

…Oh.

Well. Fuck. 

Shit. 

See, he never wanted to stay long enough for it to get to this point. The point where just thinking about the idea of forgetting again…hurt.

But as he makes the slow crawl back upstairs—after everyone’s gone all fucking sentimental and decided on staying, and said, _“goodnight”_ and _“sleep well”_, as if they weren’t all well-aware what a fucking joke that was—he realizes he’s well past that point. He was past it the second he smelled Bev’s hair.

And anyway, long story short, it’s all made him fucking sad as hell. And he’d had some more bourbon downstairs at the bar, and…well. Yeah.

That’s when the lamp gets smashed. 

_“Fuck!”_ he shouts, immediately, though he’s not really sure if it’s about the cut on his hand, or Stan, or the realization that he just broke a hotel lamp and he’ll absolutely have to pay extra for that.

The soft knocking comes as he’s got his thumb between his lips to stop the bleeding and hasn’t quite yet finished crying. Of course, he already knows it’s Eddie, and the idea of him seeing Richie like this, now, is just the ranch dressing on the shit salad.

“Richie? Hey, I heard a crash. Everything alright?”

“No, not fucking really.”

“Let me come in.”

“’S open.”

Eddie’s silhouette takes up his whole doorway, and Richie’s sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, knees tucked to his chest, sucking on his thumb.

_“Jesus_, Rich, what—oh.”

There is a long silence. Neither of them move. Richie doesn’t even look up. 

He is faintly aware that he’s crying.

“What do you want me to do?” is what Eddie asks then, suddenly tense. Richie curses himself, because he should have had a thousand and one dirty jokes primed and ready to shoot off in case Eddie ever showed up in his bedroom and asked him this exact thing—and the fact that his brain is just giving him _nothing_ and he doesn’t even think he’d have the energy to open his mouth and spit out a joke if he tried is desperately depressing.

Heh. _Shoot off._

Ach, fuck, that’s not even good.

Instead, he doesn’t say anything, and Eddie follows up with: 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Right. Because that’s a logical thing that would happen in this situation. Because—Richie has to remind himself—he and Eddie _don’t_ know each other. They don’t. And those memories he’s been having aren’t _now_ they’re _then_, and he should really fucking keep reminding himself of that because the more he looks at Eddie, it gets increasingly harder to force himself to separate the two.

But the fact that it’s phrased as a question, and not a, _“I’ll just leave,”_ gives Richie something to hold onto, even if it’s pathetic.

So, he says, “No. Don’t.”

Before Richie can ask him to shut the door, Eddie’s done it already, and makes his way around the ceramic shards to sit at Richie’s side. Richie can smell his cologne, and can feel the sickeningly comforting heat of him, even though Eddie’s shoulder is a few inches away from touching his own.

It’s a long time before either of them says anything. 

_(too long too long eddie knows what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling and he can see right through you he always has and he **knows** he knows he knows—)_

“You could only ever cry in front of me.”

Richie looks up, then. Blinks at him wildly, the confusion distracting him from his grief, however momentarily. Eddie wears a sad smile, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing Richie’s ever seen.

“At least, I never saw you cry in front of anyone else,” he continues. “First time I ever saw you cry, I almost couldn’t believe it. You never wanted to let anyone know what you were feeling. Put up a big wall; never let anyone in. You were always more comfortable telling jokes. I hated that. Never knowing.”

Richie sniffles.

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not, asshole.”

Richie thinks that maybe he’s right. Because God knows he hasn’t changed at all, in that respect. And after one shitty Chinese dinner wherein Richie spent the entire night _deflecting deflecting deflecting_, Eddie can probably tell as much. 

But there’s also a very large, sappy, forty-year-old part of him that feels a strong and sudden pang of regret, wishing that he hadn’t spent his teenage years poisoning Eddie against him. Poisoning him so badly that he could no longer tell when Richie was trying his best to apologize with an ounce of sincerity.

Eddie looks at the shattered lamp.

“…Is this about Stan or the clown?”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough.”

Richie is crying again, just because he no longer has the energy to stop himself.

“Shitty fuckin’ day, huh?” Eddie asks with a sad kinda laugh. And Richie tries to laugh too, but he thinks it comes out as an even louder sob.

Then, the crash.

Sobbing, and dry heaving, and more sobbing, gasping for air, never able to breathe in enough, collapsed on the floor, shaking violently, and—

“God, _why_—Eds, he was my best friend, he was my best fuckin’ friend in the whole world, and I never told him, he didn’t know—that son of a bitch, why would he do that—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Eds, why would he—"

Richie is hunched over. Eddie’s warm hands are on his back, and they ground him.

“I know. I know. Shh, I’ve got you. Richie…God, Richie, honey, I’ve got you. It’s okay. Breathe. Breathe for me, please, I need you to just _breathe_—"

It takes a while, but Eddie finally leaves his side, saying he’s going to the bathroom to get Richie some water. Richie still hasn’t moved from the floor when he comes back, but it’s a start. And leave it to Edward Kaspbrak to conjure cleaning supplies from thin air, because by the time he’s finally got Richie in the bed, the lamp shards have been swept up and chucked in the trash.

Eddie lays down next to him, and Richie holds in a sharp intake of breath.

“You know he knew, Richie.”

For a second, Richie’s confused. The last ten minutes had been one big fuckin’ blur.

“Stan knew how you felt. He knew he was your best friend. I’m sorry I said that, earlier. About you, being…I wasn’t…I didn’t mean all that.”

Richie shrugs. “You’re right. It’s how I am.”

“Maybe, but you’re more than that, too. You were always affectionate. With everyone. You let people know how you felt, in your way. I should know. I should know better than anyone. I do know. I’m…I’m really sorry, Richie.”

Richie wasn’t sure what any of _that _was supposed to fuckin’ mean. Suddenly and uncomfortably, it felt like they were teenagers again. Starting the year after _that _summer, when Eddie started to become someone Richie felt like he only _sort of_ understood. When everything he said had this weird new weight to it that Richie didn’t know how to deal with. When despite how sincere and open Eddie always sounded now, Richie always felt like there was something he _wasn’t _saying. And whatever it was that Eddie wasn’t saying, he sure got pissed as hell whenever Richie didn’t hear it.

(_“—and since neither of us are going to prom, I figured we could—”_

_ “I’m going to prom.” _

_ “…What?” _

_ “Bethany Kowalski asked me. So, I’m going.” _

_ “…” _

_ “…Eds?” _

_ “Bethany Kowalski,” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “…asked you to prom.” _

_ “That’s right.” _

_ “Bethany Kowalski asked you to prom.” _

_ “Okay, this is getting a little freaky. Eds? You alright? Did I break you? Please say something that’s not just—” _

_ “Bethany Kowalski asked you to prom, so you’re going with Bethany Kowalski. To prom.” _

_ “Jesus fuck. Yeah, Eds. I am.” _

_ “…Okay.” _

_ “Wh—okay? Is that—is that a fuckin’ problem? Why are you acting so weird?” _

_ “I’m not acting weird.” _

_ “My pink puckered asshole you’re not acting weird!” _

_ “Richie, gross.” _

_ “You’ve been like this for fucking months—what the fuck is wrong with you?” _

_ “Like _ what_, Richie? What have I been like?”_

_ “…” _

_ “Answer the fucking question, what have I been like?” _

_ “I don’t know! Just—” _

_ “Never mind. Just leave it.” _

_ “Eds—” _

_ “Leave it!” _

_ “Aw, Eds, look, we’ll find you a hot date, buddy, don’t worry, I promise we’ll—” _

_ “…” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Don’t _ fucking_ call me that.”)_

It was a fucking headache.

He hopes that it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. He hopes that maybe, if he stays, and doesn’t forget again, that he and Eddie can somehow go back to the way things were that summer. When things were really easy. When they knew each other like the backs of their hands. When on their best days, they felt like one in the same person, and on their worst days, they just bickered like an old married couple.

It sounds stupider as he says it in his head. They can’t go back to that. They can’t ever go back to that. 

And Eddie has a life. A job. A wife. Maybe Eddie doesn’t want to know him anymore at all. Richie barely wants to know himself. He’s a shitty, lazy, slimy, shallow, dirty human being—everything Sonia Kaspbrak had done her due diligence to warn her son against.

In bed next to him, Eddie reaches with outstretched fingers to move a strand of hair from Richie’s face, and Richie feels the sensation move all the way down his body to his dick.

“Do you remember a lot?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” says Richie, after a swallow.

“How much?”

“More every hour.”

Something flashes across Eddie’s face.

“…Huh.”

Richie furrows his brow. “What? Why? What do you remember?”

Eddie frowns. “Everything. All at once. Soon as I crossed the county line.”

Richie’s breath leaves his body as Eddie turns over to lay on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


	2. Of Splinters, Cigarettes, and Jackie Wilson

** then **

_“Didn’t know what time it was, the lights were low, I leaned back on my radio, some cat was layin’ down some rock’n—”_

There’s a cigarette in front of his face. So, naturally, Richie reaches up and pulls off the headphones, passing them to his right as he grabs the cigarette in his left hand.

“Vermont’s got a real underground music scene,” Bevvie is saying. “Hair bands. Garage bands. Lot of local stuff. Could be really cool.”

“M-hmm,” Richie has been saying.

“I can’t wait to get invited to real _parties._ Music shows. House parties where college kids get high and talk philosophy. Not like the shit people do here, just ‘cause they’re bored out of their minds and wanna get drunk just to feel something.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, but it’s a ‘yeah’ that he _means_. In fact, this whole conversation has served, if nothing else, to make him long for Vermont, of all places. And that tiny spark of jealousy—which first showed up when Bev had announced she was moving away at the end of the summer—was now no longer so tiny.

Bev, breaking the magical bubble of the moment, turns on her side to face him and takes off her headphones, discarding them on the bed. She props her head up—to _really _look at him—resting an elbow on the mattress.

“You know, I talk a lot about Vermont, Richie, I know I do. But thanks for listening, anyway.”

“Yeah, no problem. I don’t mind.”

“I know. But…look, the reason I talk about it so much…”

“You’re excited.”

“I’m nervous,” she says, and Richie blinks in surprise.

“Terrified, actually,” Bev continues. “Richie, I…I’m going to miss you all so much, sometimes it kills me. Really kills me. Running my mouth about Vermont is the only thing that distracts me. It keeps me sane. I know everyone must be real sick of it, though. I think I would be.”

It’s moments like these where he thinks he really understands Bev on a very deep level. Deeper than he understands Ben or Mike or Bill, or even Stan. Maybe even Eddie.

Bev reconfirms that when she says: “Nobody else gets it. None of the others—certainly not Ben or Bill. Whenever I say anything to them about it they look like they’re gonna start crying.”

Richie rolls his eyes, and takes a drag. “That’s because those two think you hung the moon, Bev.”

She blushes. “Yeah, maybe. I didn’t, though.”

“You’re tellin’ me. You can’t even hang your damn posters right.”

Richie is looking—pointedly—at the depressingly crooked Siouxsie and the Banshees poster on the opposite wall.

Bev laughs, and it’s not exactly groundbreaking that the sound is pretty and makes him feel good.

“You don’t look at me like that,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“Aw, sure I do, Bevvie. It’s just different. I don’t wanna get in your pants.”

“No, you don’t,” she says, and that’s not a question, either.

There’s a pause.

“I used to, I think. Maybe. For like, two seconds.”

She raises one eyebrow in his direction.

“Quarry. Underwear. ‘Bust a Move’ on your boombox.”

“Ah. Right.”

It was true. He’d been so enamored with her, then. But he’d looked at the way the others were looking at her that day, eyes raking up and down her body, and he knew it was different. He liked girls, he thought. He did. Quite a bit. And if Bevvie were anyone else, he knew he’d be head-over-heels in love with her. But Bevvie was _Bevvie_. It was hard to think of her as anything else. That day, at the quarry, she’d looked good. _Really_ good. But all Richie had felt for her was admiration. She was so cool—so effortlessly cool, and free-spirited, and reckless and wild and kind and _wonderful_, and Richie’d wished he was half the person she was.

He gives it a second thought. “…Nah, maybe not even then. That might’ve just been my hard-on for your infallible taste in music.”

Bev giggles.

It peters out.

“Hey, Richie,” she calls.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, I just…I thought you deserved to know,” she says, taking the cigarette from him. “I took an art class this summer,”

“Uh-huh…” he says, slowly. “Good for you, Bevvie.”

“It was at the school. And, um…”

Richie does a double-take, realizing Bev is lost for words. Which rarely ever happens. Her eyes dart to the side and meet his, nervously.

Richie swallows.

“Well, I was in the girls’ bathroom. And there’s…there was some graffiti written about you, in the stall.”

He laughs, because it doesn’t yet occur to him not to. “Oh, yeah? Are the ladies of the Derry High girls’ bathroom waxing poetic about Big Dick Tozier?”

Bev, unfortunately, is not laughing with him.

“Richie…no.”

And from just the tone of her voice, he already knows.

_(Dirty little secret your dirty little secret dirty little boy don’t touch the other boys or they’ll **know** know know you’re sick, sick, sick—)_

He’s gonna be sick.

“Richie, I scratched it out. I’m so sorry.”

He’s sitting up on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest. Bev sits up with him—sidles up next to him so their shoulders are touching, because she’s good like that. Richie knows that she’s good, and that’s what hurts so bad. Because if she wasn’t just so good, she’d hate him. She’d never talk to him. Never want to look at him again. Wouldn’t share her Walkman or her cigarettes.

“Please don’t tell anyone about it,” he says in a voice so small that he can’t even hear himself in it. “Just don’t say anything. Not to anyone. Not to—”

“Richie, I would _never_. You know that.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

And in a move that renders Richie Tozier shockingly speechless, Bev wraps her arms around him and hugs him tight. She rests her head on his shoulder. And she doesn’t let go.

“I love you, Richie,” she tells him, the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“Love you too, Bevvie,” he tells her after he can process it. It’s mumbled into the skin of her arm.

It’s a moment that means something. Because it’s the first time he thinks he’s said that to someone. Someone who wasn’t Sarah, or his mom when he was little. 

It’s the first time Richie chooses it, and is aware that when he says it, he means it.

It feels good. 

** now **

It’s pathetically hard to leave Eddie sleeping in his bed.

But the fucker’s, like, _fast_ asleep—and Richie really doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how anyone could sleep here tonight, in this town, with the clown and the memories It carries with it. Richie’d gotten maybe an hour—tops—and that was likely only because Eddie had been there, in bed, right next to him, and…_fuck_. It’s a sight.

He doesn’t know how they got here. Doesn’t know why Eddie stayed. Maybe just to not be alone on a night like this one. Richie thinks he could understand that. Especially when sleeping not alone for the first time in…fuck, a while, had felt this goddamn good.

Or maybe Eddie had just fallen asleep because the man was fuckin’ tired, and Richie’s reading _way_ too much into it to be healthy. Could be that, too.

In the end, he has to look at the ring in order to force himself to untangle their legs and get up. The sight of it still feels like a cold shower.

Downstairs at the bar, Bev’s in an oversized t-shirt, biting her lip as she pops the cork on a bottle of bourbon.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks when she sees him standing there.

“Nah. They’re all a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos. Psychopaths. _Sleeping_. Jesus.”

“I know!” she groans. “Right? Like, what the _fuck?!_”

She grabs two glasses—because she’s a great fuckin’ human being—and pours. They both swallow theirs immediately, and in silence.

“How’s Eddie?”

The question startles him to attention. His back goes rigid. He blinks rapidly.

“Huh? What?” He heard her. He fucking heard her.

That’s when Bev’s eyes seem to widen a little in shock and she puts a hand to her mouth.

“Oh. Oh…sorry. I…uh…”

Richie narrows his eyes.

_“Beverly Marsh_, how long have you been behind this bar?”

“Mmm…longer than you,” she admits sheepishly, and Richie notices now how flushed she is. “’M sorry. Shouldn’t have…uh. I didn’t mean to ask that. But I did, uh…I mean, I did see him walk into your room. I heard a crash, and…”

“Oh.”

“Thin walls.” She shrugs, but has the courtesy to at least look sorry about it. “Are you…are you guys okay, or…?”

“Yeah. Yeah, fine. I’m…we’re fine.”

She draws her mouth into a thin line and nods, because she knows when to drop something. For not the first time that night, Richie thinks he remembers exactly why he loves this girl.

“You want a smoke?” she asks then with a sudden smile—like the idea had only just come to her, but she already thinks it’s the greatest idea anyone’s ever had.

He could kiss her.

They sit outside on the front steps, and even though she’s got a whole pack with her, they share just the one. And knowing that she _remembers_ puts the biggest fuckin’ grin on his face.

It sounds fuckin’ sad coming from a forty-year-old dude, but Richie doesn’t have many friends. His manager David wasn’t really his friend. He was just a guy who tolerated him. Liked him well enough, maybe. But when they went out to grab drinks—like, just the two of them—it got weird. So they only did it the once, and silently agreed to _never_ do it again. There are parties sometimes after his shows—ones that David takes the liberty of throwing—and Richie’ll mingle, but it all feels shallow. And just makes him feel more lonely. Even sex makes him feel lonely. Maybe not during, but definitely after. If he’s being honest, the only thing that doesn’t make him feel lonely anymore is being alone.

And smoking on the front stoop with Bev.

He remembers that he really liked being friends with Beverly Marsh. And he likes it now. He might like it a bit too much.

His smile dies on his face when she rubs her arms in the cold, and the sleeve of her shirt rides up above her elbow.

She notices. He knows she does. She stops rubbing her arms immediately. Her sleeve falls back into place.

“Jesus, it’s, uh…it’s pretty fuckin’ cold out here, huh?”

“Christ, Bev—”

_“Don’t.”_

She’s snapped her head back to look at him, and the look on her face is deadly serious and startlingly sober for a drunk woman. And he knows what the look means—it’s not fucking fair; it’s fucking bullshit. Because it’s, _“I didn’t press you about Eddie sleeping in your room, so return the fucking favor, dickhead”_. But there was probably no explaining to her how fucking unfair and twisted that logic was. The cigarette goes limp between his fingers as he stares back at her.

He relents, looking away as he lets out a scoff and brings the cigarette back up to his lips. Bev relaxes.

It’s silence for a while, except for Richie’s anxiously tapping foot on the bottom stair. Bev looks down at it.

“Hey, do you mind—that’s driving me a little—”

“Okay—fucking—I’m not gonna—just tell me one thing, okay, tell me you left him, at least, because you know I’m gonna lose my fucking mind, Bev—”

“Yes, Richie, I left him.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Richie sniffles in the cold. Bev looks away.

He reaches out; hands her the cigarette.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells her as she turns to grab it. It occurs to him that he never told her this when he’d had the chance at thirteen. But he was then. And he is now.

She smiles—kind of sadly. They move on.

“What was that crash I heard last night?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. _Tit for tat_, it says.

Richie sighs. He rubs the back of his neck absently and shrugs.

“I uh, broke a fucking lamp on the ground ‘cause I was drunk and mad and ugly-crying on the floor because my best friend slit his wrists and killed himself in the bathtub.”

Bev scoots up so she’s sitting on the same step as Richie. She leans until her head rests on his shoulder.

“I miss him,” she says.

“Really? I don’t,” says Richie, upsettingly close to crying again. “I don’t remember him enough to miss him.”

She seeks out his hands just to place one of hers on top of them. She grips them tight.

“You will,” Bev promises.

** then **

Richie didn’t know what one wore to dinner at a friend’s house.

It’s not like he was ever invited over to the Kaspbrak household to break bread with _Sonia _and her son. At Bill’s house they’d usually just order a pizza, or grab whatever leftovers Mrs. Denbrough had in the fridge, reheat them, and sprint back up to Bill’s room.

This was different.

Stanley had extended a formal invitation. Made a whole thing of it. Showed up to his locker, said, “You should come have dinner with us on Friday.”

Naturally, this had confused Richie.

“Okay…” he’d blinked. “Why?”

Stan shrugged. “Just…because. Why? Are you busy on Friday?”

“Gee Stan, yeah, I don’t know—schedule’s pretty packed. Not sure I can pencil you in. Thanks for reaching out, though!”

Stan had rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Forget I asked. I regret it immediately.”

“No, no, no—wait!” Richie’s face heated up—maybe even turned red. He didn’t know why, entirely. Except that he was angry with himself. Angry that he couldn’t take anything serious. Angry that Stan was trying to do something pretty cool, and Richie was so close to ruining it—as he did with most things—just by opening his mouth. “You know I’m only kidding. I’ll never turn down free food. Hell yeah! What’s Mrs. Uris got cookin’?”

“Please don’t say it like that—God.”

“Like wh—how did I say—”

“Just no jokes about my mom, in general. I’m serious, Richie, especially while you’re there, she’s going to a lot of effort; wants to cook this whole meal—”

“I didn’t even—!”

“Just don’t, okay?”

Richie frowned. “It’s frankly insulting that you think I would ever cheat on Sonia. Your mother’s a lovely woman, but Stanley, please.”

Stanley had audibly groaned.

“Just be there,” Stan had said in the end.

It had all seemed so strange—but also, very exciting. Richie didn’t usually get invited places. He tended to insert himself into situations. He’d invite _himself_ over to Bill’s, mostly. And he already spent most every waking moment with Eddie. They didn’t need to plan things like this. If Richie wanted to see him, he’d simply climb up and crawl through his window whenever he was home. 

He and Stan usually made plans together, or just followed Bill wherever he went. But now, Stanley had _invited_ him. So that had to mean something more. Something special.

Richie frowns in front of the mirror. He doesn’t know how to tie a bowtie. 

He had stol—_borrowed_ it from his dad’s closet, and had thrown it on over some monkey suit his mom had bought him for church. It’s an awful light blue thing over a ruffled white shirt, and even Richie thinks it looks _stupid_, but it’s the only really nice clothes he owned.

After maybe his tenth try with the bow, Richie huffs, sending a loose strand of hair up and away from his face.

That’s when Sarah passes by his door in the hallway.

Catching sight of him in her periphery, she quickly backs up to get a second look into his room, carrying a plate of something in her hands.

“Uhh…Richie?” her wide eyes assess him from head-to-toe.

“Are those cookies? Sarah, did you make _cookies_ and you didn’t fuckin’ tell me?”

“I was gonna.”

“No, you weren’t! You were carrying those to your room!”

“Alright, sue me, I had a rough day.” But the cookies seem to be forgotten as she walks into the room, setting them on his dresser and approaching Richie carefully, like a tiger in a cage. “What—what are you wearing?”

He’s sure he gets very red, then.

“Shut up.”

“I just asked—” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “You going somewhere?” Then, she gasps, and her hands move to her mouth. “Richie—_no_. You don’t have a _date_, do you?”

“No,” he mumbles.

Sarah crosses her arms and leans on one hip. “Well, then what?”

“’S just dinner. At Stan’s house.”

Sarah looks bewildered. “And you’re…dressing up for that? You look like you’re headed to junior prom.”

“Look, shut up okay? Just…” And then, in an embarrassingly small voice: “Do you know how to tie a bowtie?”

It’s weird when her face does the next thing—where Richie can see her bringing down her walls one by one—every instinct to prod or poke fun or be a bitchy, annoying older sister—and turning her lips into a soft smile. Because he didn’t see that often on Sarah. Not directed towards him, anyway. 

“Yeah,” she says affirmatively as she walks up close and grabs the tie by both ends. “Come ‘ere.”

Sarah is very close to him now, which is also sort of different. She rarely hugs him. But she has been known to, on occasion, when she thinks he really needs one. Like when Dad had yelled at him for an hour about trashing his bike (he’d somehow ridden it accidentally into a rocky creek in the Barrens), or when he had come home from the Kaspbrak house in tears and wouldn’t tell her why. 

Richie thinks that maybe her tying his bowtie is kind of like one of her hugs. Maybe she thinks he really needs this.

“Do you like Stan?” he hears her ask after a momentary stretch of silence.

(It’s before. Before Richie knows—_really_ knows—the way he’s perceived. The way people talk about him. The way the entire fucking town looks at him. It’s before Bowers calls him a fag for the first time. It’s before the graffiti in the bathroom. And Richie doesn’t think. Doesn’t think why she asks. Doesn’t think to answer very carefully, or defensively. Doesn’t think.)

He looks at her funny. “Uh, yeah. ‘Course I like Stan. He’s my best friend in the whole world. ‘Cept for maybe Eddie. And Bill’s pretty great too.”

It’s hard to rate his friends. He only really has three. And he likes them all so much.

Sarah glances up at him (briefly—trying to hide the way she’s considering him and his answer) and nods.

“Why do you think he invited you over for dinner?”

Richie shrugs wordlessly.

“Is his family gonna cook for you? Like, a full meal, sitting down at the dinner table—the whole nine yards?”

“I think.”

“Huh. That’s nice of them,” she remarks as she finishes with his bow. “Not like we ever do that around here.”

Sarah steps out of the way so Richie can see himself in the mirror. He thinks he still looks pretty stupid. But the bow does help pull it all together. Sarah’s smiling over his shoulder, and plays with his hair a bit so that it’s not so in his face.

“Go knock ‘em dead, killer,” she tells him, and kisses his cheek.

Richie’s psyched himself up enough by the time he arrives at Stan’s house that he thinks the rest of the night will be a breeze. That’s why he isn’t prepared for the way his stomach drops when he rings the doorbell. _Why the fuck did he dress up? He didn’t need to dress up. Stan’s going to make fun of him. His parents are gonna look at him weird. _

There’s some shuffling and some voices behind the door before Stan opens it.

He’s not nearly as dressed up as Richie, but he’s wearing a nice-looking red button down and some slacks. He looks Richie up and down and raises an eyebrow. Richie looks up at him nervously, hands stuffed deep in his pockets because he doesn’t know where else to put them.

“Wow, Trashmouth. Didn’t expect you to put effort into this. I’m impressed.”

Maybe it’s a backhanded compliment, but coming from Stan, it’s really fucking nice. Richie’s grin grows to eat up his whole face, probably.

Stan opens the door wider and nods his head to usher Richie inside. 

The first thing that hits Richie is the way the house smells _amazing_. He thinks Mrs. Uris must be baking biscuits or something in the oven, and she’s lit candles all over the place which smell earthy and fruity and warm, and Richie doesn’t realize it but his mouth is hanging open. Stan walks over and casually closes it with a finger pressed under his chin.

When they walk into the kitchen, Mrs. Uris turns from the sink and smiles. 

“Oh—hi, Richie! Look at you! So handsome!”

Mrs. Uris has full, curly blonde-brown hair like Stan, big green eyes, and is pretty. Richie’s kind of always known that—it’s not the first time they’ve met, except before it’s only ever been in passing. She’s not pretty though like Beverly Marsh from English class is pretty—that _crazy_ pretty that makes you lose your mind thinking about how girls can look like that—or in any way that makes Richie wanna go jerk off or something—she’s just pretty in that she’s nice to look at. Pretty like a mom should be, he thinks. The way he remembers thinking his mom used to be, before she started drinking again, and stopped smiling as much.

Richie blushes at her compliment.

“Thanks, Mrs. Uris.”

“Do you boys wanna help me? It’ll be ready faster if you do. Stanley, honey, can you go set the table? And Richie, you can come chop these vegetables once I’m done washing them.”

“Sure, Mom,” Stanley says, and he’s gone before Richie can say anything. 

Slowly—face still red—Richie approaches Mrs. Uris at the sink. Once he’s standing to her right, she places an onion and some other long, leafy green stuff Richie can’t identify on the cutting board in front of him.

“Be careful with the knife, sweetie,” she says.

Cheeks hot, he manages: “Sure thing, Mrs. Uris. I mean, can’t promise they’ll come out any good though.” 

She looks at him. 

“I mean, at home, my mom doesn’t—I’ve never—”

She smiles, and it’s nice and warm and encouraging. “Never chopped veggies before? Here, I’ll show you.”

And in a flash she’s grabbed the knife, and is showing him how to cut an onion and score it so you can dice it easier. And the other thing on the cutting board is celery—of course it’s fucking celery. Duh. Richie’d just never seen it not cut up in little pieces before, that’s all. Once she gets it started, she lets him do the rest. It comes out all right. Richie doesn’t feel all that embarrassed anymore.

Once all the food is done and he and Stan are putting it on the table, the front door opens and Stan’s dad walks in. He’s dressed in a suit—tall and broad shouldered with a bit of a belly and a moustache. He’s carrying a briefcase. His smile is big and white, and as he walks by the table, he places one hand on Stan’s head and the other on Richie’s, and he ruffles both heads of hair.

“Hey, champ! Hey there, Richie!”

And then he makes his way to the kitchen, tells his wife that dinner _“smells delicious”_, and kisses her in a way that’s almost too affectionate.

Richie can’t keep his eyes off the whole scene.

“Richie._ Rich,_” Stan calls, and Richie shakes himself out of the daze. “Hey, pass the knives.”

Richie can do that. Richie does that. Because Stan’s looking at him kinda funny now, and that means it’s time to distract both of them. 

“Righty-ho, Stanny boy. Nothing I’d bloody like better. I’m right chuffed to pass you these knives. Here you are. Jolly good.”

Now Stan’s looking at him in a way that’s normal. The way that says, _“please euthanize me so I never have to hear that again,”_ and so Richie knows he’s done his job.

Dinner goes so good. So, _so_ good. The food is great, Stan’s parents are smiling and ask Richie questions about school and Sarah and Bill and Eds, and no questions about his parents. Richie does his voices and tells a few bad jokes, and they even laugh—even _Stan_ laughs at some of them, which has Richie looking out the window to see if pigs were flying. Mr. Uris is a pretty funny guy, too. Has Richie in stitches a few times. 

Mr. and Mrs. Uris are drinking red wine and making googly-eyes at each other and Mr. Uris feeds his wife food off his fork while she laughs, and Richie—unlike Stan pretends to be—isn’t grossed out by it at all. He thinks it looks really, really, really wonderful.

When it’s over and Richie thanks Stan’s parents and says goodbye, Stan walks with him to the edge of his front lawn. Richie is looking down at his feet when he says, “I had no idea your parents were so cool, Staniel. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Stan furrows his brow. “Cool? _Them?_ No. They’re embarrassing. Come on.”

Richie swallows—realizes he doesn’t have a funny quip for that. It just makes him feel kinda weird. And he’s briefly upset, because he can’t figure out why that upsets him. Stan has cool parents. He should _know_ he has cool parents. 

Something about Richie’s face must say all that, ‘cause Stan’s eyes widen briefly—almost as if regretting what he said—then he backtracks, and starts looking down at _his_ feet, too.

“Yeah—yeah, alright, they’re pretty great.”

Richie smiles and nods. “You’re pretty lucky.”

Stan’s smile is—yes, really, hard to believe coming from Stan—soft. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

When they get to the sidewalk, Richie stuffs his hands back in his pockets. 

“Alright, well, uh, thanks, you know. This was pretty cool. I had a really good time.”

“No problem, Rich. You’re…uh, you’re welcome for dinner any time. You and, uh…and Sarah, if she wants. My parents…_I_…want you to know that.”

Richie swallows. And nods. He thinks that sounds really nice.

“Alright Rich, I’ll…I’ll see you at school.”

“See ya,” he says, and they wave a quick goodbye, and Richie heads home. 

It’s his misfortune that that night, it just so happened Henry Bowers and his gang were walking through town. Richie’s house wasn’t even that far from Stan’s—just a few blocks. But those were the blocks Bowers chose to prowl that night. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

“Hey, Tozier!” he called out from across the street, and Richie winced. He had kept his head down, hoping they wouldn’t see him. And he had been so blissed out from the dinner, that he hadn’t even noticed the group until it was too late. “That your _fucking boyfriend?”_

“’Course it is—dude, that Uris kid is such a flamer.”

“Look at his fucking sissy outfit!” Patrick is laughing hysterically at his own joke, because he’s a fucking idiot. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”

“Hey, _faggot!”_ Henry shouts, and Richie stops walking—freezes in place. “We’re fucking talkin’ to you!”

The word is a different kind of sting. All of Henry’s other jeers were just air. Richie could spit back twice as good as he got—the guy needed new material. But this makes his face heat up. Makes him angry. Makes him want to puke a little.

He turns around and sneers. 

“Eat _shit_, you fucking Neanderthal!”

Henry looks like a bull seeing red. “Fuck did you just say to me?” Richie has time to find it funny—in the split second before he’s turning around to run—that Henry probably actually _doesn’t_ know what that word means.

And Richie’s sprinting. As fast as he fucking can—Bowers and the rest hot on his heels.

Sarah walking down from their front porch less than a block away is a beautiful sight.

“Richie! Richie, you alright?”

Richie slows down. He turns back to look. Henry and the rest, looking at Sarah angrily, have given up and are starting to walk away. The look she shoots back to them is scary.

“Yeah,” he tells her, out of breath. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Come on inside.” She places a hand on his back and guides him through their front gate.

They go inside and pass by where their mom is fast asleep in the bedroom. They go to Sarah’s room, where she’s made another batch of cookies—which they share. He tells her all about dinner. He tells her that Stan and his parents invited her, too, if she wants to come over ever. She smiles and says that sounds nice. She doesn’t mention Mom being drunk. She doesn’t mention Dad not being home. She doesn’t ask about Bowers. Richie forgets about Bowers completely—at least for that night. He forgets what he called him. It doesn’t matter anymore.

** now **

Eddie is gone before Richie wakes up the next morning. Which is fair enough, and probably for the best. It does color the situation a bit, though. Makes it feel like some dirty one-night stand. But it wasn’t. Instead it was all the shame and guilt, and none of the sex. Richie can handle it, he tells himself. He was raised Catholic, after all.

Richie wonders how Eddie had left that morning. He wonders if he woke up to see Richie sleeping next to him, as the memories from the previous night flooded back. If he had grimaced. If he had thought, _“What the hell was I thinking?”_; looked down at his shiny gold wedding ring and sprinted out of bed.

Richie wonders if they’ll ever talk about it again. 

Apparently not, as it turns out. Eddie doesn’t look at him the whole morning. Not as they grab coffee and breakfast at the diner a block over. Not in the backseat of Mike’s car as they drive to the Barrens. Not when they get out of the car and start walking.

Richie looks at him a lot—just to make sure. It never happens.

Which puts him in a real sour fucking mood. Demonic evil clown and repressed childhood memories notwithstanding. 

“No, dude, I fucking remember that clubhouse,” he’s telling Ben as they’re making their way through the forest. “’Course I do. Thing was a fortress. Beautiful. You built that thing, right? With your own two hands. I remember. God damn it, and you’re an architect. That’s perfect. Oh my God.”

Ben grins, shakes his head and chuckles. Richie likes Ben. God, he forgot how much he_ likes_ Ben. What a great guy. And hot, too.

“Do you remember that hammock we put up?” comes a voice behind them. Richie stops walking.

Ben’s continued on, now talking to Mike. Bevvie and Bill are out in front. Eddie stops, frowning, and turns to look at Richie for the first time that day.

“Oh—I’m sorry—are you speaking to me, now?” Richie asks, with more anger laced in his voice than Eddie deserves. He cusses himself out in his head.

Eddie opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then looks over to the others. Then closes it.

“Richie, I…I—”

But Richie’s already making a clicking sound with his tongue, and waving a hand dismissively in Eddie’s face. He turns to walk away.

“Nah, nah, man, never mind. Forget it. It’s fine. I’m being a dick.” He’s walking, and he doesn’t think Eddie has moved behind him yet. “Yes, I remember the hammock,” he throws back over his shoulder. “And your dumb fucking shorts!” he yells also, as if that should mean anything to Eddie.

Mike’s going on about some ritual—the same one Bill said last night he knows is real because he and Mike had some wicked edibles and saw the future, or some shit. Richie wasn’t really paying attention then—or now. He’s too busy thinking about Eddie now in the shorts from back then. With that tight little ass he’s got now. Hmm…

Bill asks him a question, which forces him out of his own head and has him quickly reciting: _Wife. Wife wife wife wife. Sonia Kaspbrak. Sonia Kaspbrak’s granny panties. Sonia Kaspbrak in lingerie. Dead puppies. Ring on his finger. Wife!_

It works. 

But growing up after battling a clown from hell has primed him to go along with just about anything, so he quickly catches back up with the conversation and gets the idea. Tokens. Fire ‘em up. Hold hands in a circle and sing _Kumbaya_. Then—bingo, bango, bongo—you’ve got yourself a dead clown. Got it. No problem-o. Sounds legit.

When Ben finally crash-lands into the old clubhouse and they crawl down inside, it really feels like they’ve all gone through a time portal or some shit. It’s fuckin’ weird. Seeing these people, being with them again, sure, that drudges up a lot of memories—a lot of good, a lot of bad. But being _here_, surrounded and encompassed by the dusty remains of what was, unable to escape it…it’s a whole different kinda trippy. Richie shuffles his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortably. He hopes it isn’t obvious.

He does the stupid Pennywise dance to distract himself. As a fuckin’ joke. And to get Eddie to look at him again, even if it’s in complete and utter annoyance.

It’s not appreciated.

Later, when they start talking about Stan again, and Richie starts to feel like he’s suffocating, he feels Eddie looking at him. When he looks back, he sees Eddie thumbing the shower caps. Richie’s jaw clenches.

“I wonder what he was like all grown up.”

Richie swallows. He thinks about eleven-year-old Stan—too mature, too smart for his age—seeing how lonely Richie was and inviting him over for a homecooked dinner, unprompted. He thinks about Stan offering up his home _(“anytime, Rich. Sarah, too, if she wants.”)_, and allowing him the glimpse of a family Richie was deprived of. 

He thinks Stan would be handsome. Probably not like Ben, but, y’know, we can’t all be. Successful. Something _horrifically_ boring—but not like Eddie, with a job he hates and can’t admit to. It’d be something so boring that Stan would fucking _love_ it. Like a professional bird watcher. Maybe an accountant. He remembers Stan got married; Bev talked to his wife last night. Richie hopes he loved her. Hopes she loved him. Hopes he was happy. 

Richie chokes on his next words.

“Probably what he was like as a kid. The best.”

They wander like ghosts around that clubhouse for another thirty minutes. Bev and Ben step outside. He finds Eddie in a dark corner, looking at the hammock, still clutching the shower cap in his hand.

“Hey, uh, Eds, I…” he starts, not knowing where he’s going with it. Eddie looks up at him, eyes big. “I’m sorry. Really, about earlier, I didn’t mean…I just…last night, I…you were—”

“Richie,” he croaks, voice small. “…I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

And Eddie leaves.

** then **

_“Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon, you come and go, you come and go—lovin’ would be easy if your colors were like my dreams—”_

“Stan, what the hell is this?” Richie asks, dropping his comic in annoyance, even though he can clearly see Eddie happily swaying his foot along to the music.

_“Music,”_ Stan spits from across the clubhouse.

“Stanley, you wouldn’t know music if it smacked you in the face.”

“Says _you,”_ Eddie says, narrowing his eyes. “Your music sucks ass. It’s just a bunch of loud noise.”

Richie narrows his eyes right back. “Yeah, that’s what music _is_, dipshit.”

“Fuck you! You know what I mean.”

“Fuck _you_—I fucked your mom.”

“Take that back! No you fucking didn’t!”

“You sure? Why don’t you ask her?”

They’re in the hammock, of course, smacking each other around. Eddie with his shorts on and his shoes off. (They miss Bill giving Stan a _look_, and Stan rolling his eyes and shrugging, saying, _“It’s a mating ritual. Birds do it too.”_ Bill teases him about it later. Richie gets hot in the face, vehemently denies it, and calls Stan a _“real fucking smarmy asshole”.)_

Stan and Bill leave before Eddie and Richie do, making them the only ones left in the clubhouse that afternoon. It’s not a unique occurrence.

The thing is, Richie finishes with his comic way before Eddie finishes his. But Eddie doesn’t notice, ‘cause he’s too involved in whatever he’s reading. So instead, Richie lays there with his comic book laying on his chest, sweating and gulping as he’s come to realize that Eddie is slowly—absently—drawing circles on Richie’s calf with his socked foot.

More than that, he starts to be very aware of how tightly Eddie’s legs are bracketing him—and he’s wearing the shorts but they’re in _white_ today—and Richie can feel the skin on the inside of Eddie’s thighs against his arms. And then—_oh Christ sweet fuck—_Eddie’s switching the position of their legs, bringing his in between Richie’s, and now his foot’s wandering on Richie’s bare leg, up to his thigh, and_—nononononono not now not now fuck—_

Richie stands up abruptly and adjusts himself before Eddie can look up and see.

“…Rich?”

“My music doesn’t suck ass. And it’s not all loud noise,” he says quickly, just to think of _anything_ else. “Here. I’ll show you.”

“Oh, o-okay.”

Richie wasn’t really expecting him to relent so easily, but he’s not looking back at Eddie, lest some unwanted thoughts come back up and cause…issues. He’s already at the boombox, pressing his tongue through the corner of his lips in thought.

“I think Bev left the tape around here somewhere…” he says as he rifles through their collection. “A-ha! Here it is. That woman’s never let me down.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet fascination. “You and Bev listen to the same music?”

Richie throws his head over his shoulder then, giving Eds a funny look.

“’Course we do. Well, mostly. We share a lot of these.” Richie rattles the bucket of cassette tapes.

“Oh,” says Eddie, from the hammock, but sounding farther than that.

“Now—prepare for your life to change forever, Eddie my boy.” Richie inserts the tape and closes the door.

(In retrospect, _Disintegration_ was probably—definitely—_not_ the album he should’ve chosen.)

Richie returns to the hammock. The album starts with “Plainsong”. He and Eddie do not speak.

But as the opening plays, Eddie is looking at him. Really, really intensely. Like he’s trying to figure Richie out. Or like he’s _just_ figured something out.

It makes Richie’s hands shake. And Richie’s already sort of realized the mistake he’s made with his choice of music. But it would be extra suspicious if he ran over to the boombox and quickly swapped the tapes for some AC/DC. So he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Eddie’s eyes dart down to Richie’s fingers as he pulls out a cigarette, and a lighter from his jeans pocket to match. 

_“When_ did you start smoking?”

“Uh…” Richie thinks. (After carving something into the bridge. The next day, he’d biked to Bev’s, climbed up the fire escape, sat in her room. He’d asked her for one. He needed it. Because his hands were still shaking so bad and whenever she smoked, she looked so _relaxed_. Like she didn’t have a care in the world. His first drag was embarrassing. He’d coughed, and Bev had patted him firmly on the back, laughed—though not mockingly—and told him to try again. The second drag had been better. As he’d smoked, getting the hang of it, he’d thought of Eddie. Thought of how he’d yelp, how he’d just _freak_ out if he saw Richie doing this. _“You put that shit in your lungs? Willingly? You moron. You absolute dumb shit. You’re gonna get cancer. I hope you die_.” Richie’d smirked, and had taken another drag. He’d thought of Sonia. Laughed because yesterday, her upturned nose and piercing words about how _dirty_ Richie was, how _awful_ and how _vile_—was all he could think about. He’d heard it as if she were standing above him, watching as he’d carved. He thought about it now, too. But now, he owned it. Sure, he was fuckin’ dirty, putting black tar in his lungs. _Good_. That’s what he wanted. He wanted to be dirty. He wanted to smoke cigarettes, spew _foul words_, and he wanted to think about her pretty, perfect son while he jerked—) “Don’t remember,” Richie shrugs, remembering.

He expects the lecture. Expects the sneer and the word cancer about three-hundred times.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is not getting it. The cigarette’s dangling between his lips, and he pulls it out to blow, and then he throws some side-eye at Eddie because it’s weird that he’s not speaking, and he catches Eddie—mouth hanging open. Eddie does not meet Richie’s eyes.

Eddie is looking at a different part of Richie’s face.

“…Eds? You good?”

“Huh?” Eddie swallows. “Y-yeah. Yeah.”

There is more silence after that. Richie smokes. Eddie pretends not to watch him smoke. Richie notices this.

“You want to try?” he raises the cigarette up from his mouth, preparing to offer it.

“What?_ No._ Yuck.” Eddie is very quick with his answer.

“Fine, fuckin’ suit yourself. I just thought…you were looking, so—”

“I’m not looking. I’m…I’m…”

Richie raises an eyebrow, waiting for Eddie to finish. He doesn’t.

“Fine, whatever. You’re not looking.”

Richie rolls his head to the side and stares down at the floor. He thinks about how Eddie _was_ looking. He _was_. He lets himself think about that. Lets his mind wonder about what it could mean, even though it didn’t mean anything. Lets himself think about what if Eddie was really staring at _him_, and not the cigarette. Lets himself think about what the color on Eddie’s cheeks meant. Lets himself think about what would happen the next time Eddie walked past the Kissing Bridge.

Then, “Lovesong” comes on.

Richie bolts out of the hammock. Fuck. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—_

“Richie, what—”

Richie’s already at the boombox. “—anyway, you get the idea. It’s good shit. You should check it out sometime, Spagheds. I’ll loan you—"

“Wait!” 

Eddie is at his side just as Richie’s finger grazes the eject button. His hand is gripping Richie’s arm, burning the flesh there. The closeness of the other boy makes Richie go still.

“Don’t. I wanna hear it now.”

Richie finds his voice. “U-uh…it’s late, Eds, I should…”

“No, it’s not.” Eddie’s voice is quiet. 

_Fuck fuck what the fuck is that what the fuck—_

Eddie listens to the song. He’s pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s staring not at the boombox or at Richie, but in between, off in the distance.

Richie is just looking at Eddie. Shamelessly.

He can feel his heart beating in his throat.

Eddie’s breath is heavy when he speaks. Richie doesn’t—can’t—think about why. 

“Richie, this song, it’s—it…”

Eddie’s eyes trace a path up to Richie’s.

Because he’s stupid and his brain does _stupid shit_ for no _goddamn reason_, Richie starts thinking about kissing Eddie.

And once that train’s pulled out of the station, there’s no fucking stopping it. He’s thinking about Eddie’s bottom lip. He’s thinking about pulling it with his teeth the way Eddie always does when he thinks really hard. He’s thinking about licking the seam, licking into his mouth, and kissing him really good and deep—the way that gets you dizzy and weak in the knees. He’s thinking about how Eddie might taste. _Like strawberries_, some part of him says—though he doesn’t know why. He’s thinking about the sounds he’d make in Richie’s mouth—how Eddie might gasp, or moan. He’s thinking about leaning down and doing it right fucking now, and just finding-the-fuck-out.

Eddie looks down—only briefly. But it’s enough to break the spell. Enough for—thank fuck—the one logical brain cell Richie has to pull the brakes on all his terrible thoughts.

“I-it’s good. I like it. It’s a good song,” Eddie admits.

“Yeah?” Richie asks, voice too thick.

Eddie looks up—looks him dead in the eyes, as if he could bore holes into his sockets if he focused hard enough.

“I _love_ this song, Richie.”

There’s a lump in Richie’s throat that won’t leave when he replies: “I love it, too.”

** now **

Mike walks with him back to the car.

The rest of them have already gone on. Richie’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. They walk side-by-side, and their shoulders bump up against each other sometimes. It feels pretty good.

Mike’s also pretty much the only other Loser who can speak to him at eye-level.

“Hey man, Mike, buddy, listen…” Richie starts his second apology of the last ten minutes, and hopes this one will turn out better than the first. “I was a real prick yesterday. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry about that. You know I’m…man, I’m sorry.”

Mike’s eyes are painfully forgiving. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Rich. I knew it was gonna come as a shock. Last night had us all reeling.” Mike chuckles to himself. “Besides, you were always a real prick back when I knew ya. I’m glad some things stay the same.”

Richie fuckin’ _giggles_, breaking out in a grin. “Aw, man, you say the nicest things.”

“Lots of things stayed the same, seems like,” Mike says fondly, with a shake of his head.

“I’ll say. You peep that thirty-year-old love triangle we’ve got on our hands? Those three don’t fucking let up, huh? They’re like a bunch ‘a bunnies in heat—you wouldn’t think we had a killer psycho clown to go murder.”

Mike considers Richie’s words with a smile.

“Yeah, that too.” 

Mike’s got a gleam in his eye, and he’s looking at Richie in a way that has him coughing.

“Hey,” Mike says, stepping forward with a firm hand to the back of Richie’s neck. “I love you, brother. Thank you for staying. It means a lot.”

Richie looks up at him and nods back. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course. Love you too, man.”

** then **

“Mike wants to throw a Losers prom,” Stan says as he sits down at lunch. “You know. Since he can’t go to the real thing.”

Richie scoffs. “Oh, right, ‘cause that’ll go over well. Let’s put out a neon sign so the football team knows where to come to kick our asses.”

“H-h-_hey_,” Bill says, as sharp as he can with a stutter. “Not all those guys are l-l-like that.”

Richie doesn’t grace that with a response. “Who’s it gonna be, anyway?” He gives a quick glance to an empty seat. Ben had moved away last month. “What—just me, you, Mike, Eds and Stan? I dunno, sounds pretty g—”

“Nah, M-M-Mike’s got a girlfriend, remember? He’s going with Suzanne, from fi-fifth period—"

“Oh, _Suzanne?_ With the big—?” Richie mimes a pair of _enormous_ tits on his chest.

Bill gives a big, affirmative nod. In unison, reaching an understanding, they both say: _“That_ Suzanne.”

“Well, good for him, but that’s still a pretty big sausage fest,” Richie says. “Doesn’t pass the Bechdel test, that’s for sure. Not that the Losers ever did. You know, we’ve really gotta start being more conscious of that kinda shit, you guys. As young men living in a _society—"_ Stan makes a prolonged groaning noise in the back of his throat that cuts off the rest of Richie’s sentence.

Bill perks up—straightens his back; puts on a real shit-eating grin.

“I think I’ve got a date, too.”

_“Big Bill!”_ Richie exclaims, slamming a hand down on the lunch table and making a _whoop_-ing noise that draws the attention of every table nearby. Stan buries his face in his hands. “Who is it? What’s her name? She got tits like Suzanne? ‘Cause Mike’s really gonna put you to shame—”

“Quit being so fucking gross, Richie.”

Richie, in all honesty—and he’s plenty ashamed to admit it—had not even noticed Eddie sitting beside him.

Eddie’s voice is so startling that all three of them snap to look at him—clearly pissed off and stabbing at his salad, not hiding that he wishes Richie was the lettuce.

Richie eyes him. Clicks his jaw back and forth. Thinks.

“Hey, don’t have a cow, man,” is the genius thing that comes out of Richie’s mouth.

Either Stan or Bill audibly gulps.

Eddie breathes sharply through his nose. 

_“Fuck off.”_ He stands, slams his tray on the table once, and leaves.

Richie doesn’t watch him go. His eyes don’t leave from where Eddie had been sitting.

Bill and Stan are dead quiet.

Richie snaps himself out of it, kicking his feet up in the now conveniently free space next to him. He turns back to Bill.

“Whatever.” And that’s all Richie says about it. “Bill, you gonna spill it, or not? Who’s the chick?”

Bill and Stan share a look of extreme concern. Richie just gets fucking impatient. He snaps his fingers in Bill’s face.

“Hey—_ground control to Big Bill!”_

“Yeah. R-r-right. Anyway, it’s uh…M-M-Megan. Megan Thomas.”

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Richie gapes. Bill gives a coy smile. “You ain’t kiddin’.”

Richie doesn’t exactly miss the way Stan’s shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. Bill does.

“I mean, fuckin’ _way to go_, Big Bill, but you’re absolutely stoned out of your mind if you think the captain of the cheerleading team is gonna come to Mike’s dumb Loser prom.”

Bill shrugs. “M-M-Mike said he’s breaking into his uncle’s liquor c-cabinet. It’s not r-really gonna be a prom. More like a party. B-besides, Megan’s cool. Really cool.”

Richie makes a big show of nodding, like Bill is the dumbest person on the planet. 

“Uhh, _yeeaah._ I _know_. Which is exactly why she _won’t come.”_

“N-no, Richie. Like…like _Bev_ cool.”

Stan’s face just falls farther. Richie can’t just pretend he doesn’t notice anymore. He bites his lip in worry; then glances quickly back to Bill, shaking his head.

“Nah. No one’s _Bev_ cool.”

Later, as Megan Thomas is climbing out of the passenger-side door of Bill’s beat-up green Camaro parked on the road outside Mike’s farm, Bill shoots him the sickest fucking smirk that says, _“Eat your own gym shorts, Richie Tozier.”_

They don’t exactly dress up—but even the slimmest fucking _possibility_ that Megan Thomas was gonna show up had Richie putting at least a full thought into what he was throwing on his body. He settled for a hot pink button-down over a white tee, some ripped black jeans and combat boots. Pink made his eyes pop. At least, that’s what Sarah said.

Turns out, Megan Thomas _is_ actually—shockingly—kinda cool. Richie’s already one beer in by the time she and Bill pull up—the first to arrive after him—and maybe that makes her funnier than she actually is. But she laughs at his jokes while the three of them sit and drink together in lawn chairs. And she isn’t a complete and utter airhead. And she seems all in all genuinely happy to be there, and genuinely into Bill—another mystery for the ages. 

She’s not _Bev_ cool.

Stan arrives next, and he gives Megan a polite little wave, but then goes inside to help Mike with food. Bill doesn’t think it’s weird. Richie knows that it is.

_(“—you know he does, Richie, you **know** that. What—d’you think Stan’s a fa—")_

Suzanne arrives, and Bill shoots Richie a Very Serious look that just says, _“Don’t stare.”_ And Richie doesn’t. She’s a fucking person—Jesus. And tits aren’t everything. 

She’s too quiet and too sweet. But she’s nice enough, and they’re in class together, so small talk is easy—if only just bearable. She soon gets distracted talking to Megan, though, and then stands up and leaves them altogether when Mike and Stan come out of the house.

When Eddie comes walking up the hill, Richie stands.

Bill’s looking up at him funny from his chair. But he wouldn’t—_wouldn’t_ be if he liked guys and _knew_ how fucking good Eddie looked. Fuckin’ oblivious straight prick with his cheerleader girlfriend. 

And Eddie _does_ look…like…_huh_. Fuck. Wow.

It’s just a jean jacket. Goddammit, it’s just a fucking jean jacket, don’t pop a boner over a dumb fucking jean jacket you sick, weird fuck—

“Hey, Bill. Megan.” Eddie’s smiling tightly when he says: “Hey, Richie.”

Hair. Hair. _Hairhairhair—_

“What?”

“—Huh?”

_Shit._

“You just said…_hair.”_

_Bitch_. Son of a _bitch._

“Hu—oh, yeah. Hair. Yep. Your—hair. Hair looks…looks good, dude.”

“Oh. Uh. Thank you.”

“Yep, no problem.”

Richie promptly turns around, walks inside the farmhouse, finds the bathroom, locks the door, and bangs his forehead as hard as he can against the mirror above the sink without breaking it.

It takes about ten minutes to calm himself down and remind his dick about Sonia Kaspbrak’s extensive lingerie collection.

When he finally walks out, Bill calls out to him over his shoulder, from his lawn chair. 

“You g-good, Richie?”

_“Yep!”_ he responds, too cheerfully. “Massive shit!”

He walks away to go have a smoke, strides long and purposeful.

“Bethany Kowalski couldn’t come, huh?” 

Eddie’s voice nearly gives him a goddamn heart attack. It shouldn’t have. Richie fucking knew he was here. Here, with a light wash jean jacket that makes his shoulders look broad and one too many rips in a pair of jeans that make his ass look good. And disheveled, coiffed hair that’s got Richie wondering if volume is one of his kinks.

He_—stupid stupid stupid—_sneaks in a quick once-over before taking a just-as-quick drag from the cigarette. Which is a mistake. He nearly coughs up a lung.

“Wh—oh, nah. Didn’t even ask,” Richie says, after narrowly avoiding a full-blown coughing fit and probably another lung cancer lecture.

“Really?” Eddie cocks his head a bit. “Why not?”

The look Richie shoots him is a mix between confusion and annoyance. 

“’Cause I honestly don’t give a fuck?”

“…about Bethany Kowalski? The girl you’re taking to prom?” Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Isn’t that kind of awful?”

“Yeah—I’m sure she’s fucking nice, Eddie, but no, not really. Pretty sure she doesn’t give a fuck about me either. Just an excuse to not go to prom stag, buddy. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, don’t worry.”

“I’m going to prom stag,” Eddie notes. “So’s Stan.”

Richie blinks.

“Something wrong with that?” Eddie continues, prodding.

“No—no, of course not. It’s just…”

“…just what?”

“Nothing—look, why are you even talking to me, anyway? Thought you were pissed at me about something.”

Eddie’s eyes narrow again, but he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Richie until Richie starts to think that he’s trying to will him out of existence. That if he stares hard enough Richie will just go up in a comical cloud of smoke. Richie tries to break the eye contact and shuffles in place awkwardly.

Then, Eddie’s holding his hand out near Richie’s face.

Richie doesn’t get it at first. Then Eddie glances quickly—impatiently—between Richie’s face and the cigarette in his hand, and Richie’s eyes grow big as saucers.

“Eds—wha—_nah_, man, come on, this stuff’ll kill you.”

“Didn’t ask if it would. Just asked for your goddamn cigarette.”

Eddie’s tone honestly scares him a little, so he gulps and hands it over.

Richie watches as Eddie smoothly brings it to his lips, inhales, and just as smoothly removes it, breathing out a thick stream of smoke in the direction of the cornfields.

“And don’t fucking call me that,” he says as an afterthought.

Richie couldn’t be asked to form coherent sentences right now if he had a gun to his head.

There’s about five quadrillion and one questions and thoughts—most of them dirty—rattling around in his head, so he starts, eloquently, with:

“E-Eddie, you…wha—you—cigarette—_when…?”_

Eddie shrugs like it’s no big deal, and not something that’s just flipped Richie’s entire universe on its ass. “Bev used to loan me some. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a disgusting fucking habit. But…sometimes, you know, it’s nice.”

Richie’s actually starting to get pretty _actively_ angry. Because that’s _not_ how it should be. Eddie shouldn’t be able to smoke a cigarette once in a blue moon, look like a fucking movie star while doing it, and then shrug it off like it’s nothing. That’s not fucking _fair._ He should have a crippling dependency, like everyone else. Fuck him.

Anyway, Eddie’s lips are wrapped around the same cigarette that Richie’s mouth was just on, which is very important.

“Won’t your mother smell that smoke, Kaspbrak?” Richie asks, because it’s about that time to start thinking real hard about Mrs. K again.

Eddie takes another, longer drag, then hands the cigarette back to Richie.

“That’s her fuckin’ problem.”

Richie gulps. Keeps the swell of attraction he feels buried as deep down as it’ll go—where it fuckin’ belongs. Where Eddie will never find it. 

Anything he might have said then is interrupted by Mike’s enthusiasm over “Thriller” now blasting from his boombox, and the semi-drunken cries of delight that come from behind them as the party finally kicks off. 

Richie tosses the cigarette on the ground and rubs it out with his shoe. He looks at Eddie through his lashes.

“She even know you’re here?”

Eddie’s smirking like the cat with his fuckin’ canary. “Not on your life. I’m grounded. I’m asleep in bed right now.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Secret’s safe with me.”

“Had to climb out the window. Years of watching you do it taught me how.”

“Look at you. All grown up.” Richie’s looking down at him appraisingly, and he knows it sounds fairly lecherous. But Richie feels the booze starting to hit him—not in a way that’s got him intoxicated or anything, he’s no damn lightweight—but in a way that’s just pleasant and tingly and has him saying shit he ought not to. And Richie’s also drunk off other things. Like this new Eddie. This new, really, really _hot _Eddie.

“I know. What would she do if she caught me here, with my mouth around Richie Tozier’s cigarette?”

Richie blacks the fuck out.

Eddie’s already walking away, making his way towards Mike and Stan, the scent of fresh soap and a touch of cologne lingering in the air where he was.

Having lost vision for a good solid ten seconds, Richie stumbles his way back over to his lawn chair next to Bill and Megan and sits down to catch his breath. He wonders if this is what an asthma attack feels like. He wonders if Eds brought his inhaler with him. Might need it.

“I didn’t know Eddie s-s-smoked,” Bill says with a frown.

“Me neither,” Richie’s voice cracks.

When night hits and the moon comes out, Mike turns on all the lights. And Richie has to admit, it all looks pretty damn nice. There’s a big pink and purple rug that’s been laid out in the center, like a dance floor. It’s littered with balloons, and multicolored streamers hang down from the string lights. Mike had pulled out all the stops, and Stan had helped him set it all up this morning. _“A Prom Under the Stars”,_ Mike had proudly called it—a smile stretching from ear-to-ear.

The girls are dancing together, having a great time by the sounds of things, and the boys are standing on the sidelines talking and drinking beer. Richie watches as Mike darts inside the house, and follows him.

“Hey man, you need help with anything?” Richie shuffles up behind him.

Mike throws a glance over his shoulder. “Uh, maybe! Follow me.”

He leads Richie deeper into the farmhouse, down into the basement. They stomp down creaky wooden stairs that feel like they’re about to snap any second.

“So, did it all turn out like you thought it would?” Richie asks him.

“Oh, party hasn’t started yet, Richie!” Mike reaches the basement floor and darts over to the corner, pulling and pushing on boxes until he sees what he wants. “Oh yeah, baby. Here we are.”

Mike pulls out from behind a few stacks of milk cartons and wooden slats—a turntable. 

“Shit, Mikey—you had that fine piece sittin’ down here gathering_ dust?”_

Mike coughs once. “Uh, belonged to my pops, actually.”

Oh. 

“Oh, shit,” Richie says, with the decency to sound embarrassed.

“I don’t know why, but we uh…don’t really use it. I don’t. I only just thought of it now.” Mike turns to Richie and grins. “Think I should pull it out? Take it for a spin? There’s some speakers back here, too. I’m sure I’ve got an extension cord laying around here somewhere, and…”

“Hell, yeah! Whatcha got in those boxes?”

“Don’t really know. Never looked at ‘em before.”

Richie gestures for Mike to hurry up as he approaches. “Well, pop the hood, Mikey, and let’s have a look!”

Mike sets the turntable gingerly down on the floor and opens up the box at his feet as he and Richie both kneel and lean over it. Excitedly, they start flipping through the records. Mike pulls up one record in particular towards the back and looks at Richie with a palpable grin on his face.

“Oh yeah,” Richie tells him. “These’ll do fine.”

Richie and Mike return to the party with their spoils held high above their heads.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Richie calls out, “the party has arrived!”

“J-J-Jesus, Mikey, where’d you find those?”

“A lady never tells, Big Bill,” Richie responds for him as Mike clears a table and starts hooking up the turntable to the speakers. As his eyes move from Bill back to Mike at his side, he catches Eddie looking at him over his beer from across the rug, a question in his bright eyes and a sly smile on his lips. Richie flashes him a winning grin, and winks.

He saves Mike from nigh-catastrophe after Richie catches him moving to put in Jackson Five’s _ABC_. He lurches to put his hand on Mike’s wrist.

_“Dude,”_ Richie says, “it’s been Michael all night. Branch out. Live a little. Put some peas in your carrots. Come on.”

Mike’s shoulders relax just a little, and it suddenly comes to Richie that Mike’s _nervous._ In sympathy—and because he really doesn’t know what else to do to make it okay—Richie places a hand on his shoulder.

“Trust me,” Richie says, dangling Jackie Wilson tantalizingly in front of Mike’s eyes. Mike smiles and nods, and Richie takes that as permission to pop that sucker in.

As soon as the song starts up, Richie whips around, shooting finger guns at Eddie as the other boy smiles and shakes his head.

“Richie, what the hell…”

Megan and Suzanne are both pretty vocal about how pleased they are with Richie’s music curation, which only feeds his ego. Bill hops out onto the dance floor without much coaxing from Megan, and even Stan starts bobbing his head and _smiling_ for the first time all damn night.

Richie lip sings as he dances and finger-guns his way towards Eddie.

_“Your love, liftin’ me higher…”_

There is a loud groan as Eddie tries to hide his face behind the hand not holding his drink. But he peeks his eyes through the slats of his fingers, so, Richie tells himself, he must at least like it a _little._ And he’s laughing. So, that’s a win in Richie’s book.

_“Than I’ve ever been lifted before,”_

“Richie, what are you—”

_“So keep it up! Quench my desire!”_

Richie does some sort of exaggerated hip thrust and looks Eddie dead in the eyes while he does it, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, God—”

_“—and I’ll be at your side, forevermore!”_

Richie’s now lip-singing in Eddie’s face, placing one hand on Eddie’s crossed arms and reaching for his beer with the other. Eddie, sighing, reluctantly gives it up and lets Richie place it on the table next to them.

“Richie, how fucking old is this song?” he shouts over the music and the laughing cries of their friends.

“Older than you, sweet cheeks. Come on, let’s dance!”

He pulls on Eddie’s hand and Eddie lets himself be pulled. When Richie pulls him in, he pulls him too close, but Eddie doesn’t seem to care, because he’s still laughing with a wrinkled nose and bright eyes. It takes the breath right out of Richie’s body. 

(And maybe that shouldn’t have surprised Richie so much. That Eddie’d let Richie pull his body towards him. That he’d let Richie make a big fool of himself in front of all their friends, for him. That Eddie had let Richie _touch him_. More than that—he seemed to want it; had delighted in it. The more he remembers from _then_, the more he wonders if Eddie was really looking at him like that the whole damn time. What it meant, and why. He’d never noticed.)

Eddie’s hands are all over him and he doesn’t remember to breathe. They’re on his shoulders, moving up towards the hair at the nape of his neck. They’re sliding down to his chest. They’re grabbing Richie’s arms as Eddie turns around, placing Richie’s hands on his sides and hips. They’re holding Richie’s hands as Richie twists him—spins him. 

As a means of pure survival, Richie has to distract himself from the spinning and haziness of Eddie in his arms and let himself just feel the moment. The time, the place, the people. He glances to his right and sees Bill dancing with his pretty girlfriend— creases in the corners of his pale blue eyes from smiling so hard. Mike pulls Suzanne in front of him and looks _happy_. Richie grabs Stan and spins him, not daring to let him just nod his head on the sidelines and be a stick in the mud. Not daring to let him be alone. Stan doesn’t object. Instead, he laughs. Then Bill grabs Stan’s other arm, pulls him closer to him, Mike and the girls. Richie’s heart swells so much he thinks it’s near to bursting.

If Bev were here, he would spin her, too. She’d look so beautiful—long, red hair swooshing in the night air in front of him, her laugh ringing out through the empty open fields. If Ben were here, he would watch her in awe. Maybe ask her to dance. Richie would tease and prod him mercilessly until he did. He always thought they’d be good together. Better than most.

He looks back to Eddie, and they’re still so close, now. But the air between them as they dance isn’t heavy like it was that summer in the clubhouse. It’s light. Easy. When Richie thinks of kissing Eddie now, it isn’t some big to-do, and there’s no real, terrifying risk that he’ll actually do it. It’s just a happy, fleeting thought. That he _could_. That he could lean down and kiss him quick and fast. That Eddie, tipsy, and happy, and drunk on the feeling of being alive, might let him. That the others might not even see—or if they did, might not even mind. That it would all feel as natural as breathing.

That was what that whole night felt like: as natural as breathing. Even if they weren’t whole anymore—even if the Losers were missing their heart and their soul, they could still feel some inkling of what they had felt back in ’89, when being young felt like a summer that wouldn’t ever come to an end. On Mike’s farm that night, somehow, with just the five of them left, they had created a time machine.

(Yeah, Richie remembers now, with clarity. He really does love Mike.)

** now **

In the old arcade, Richie feels like he’s floating outside of himself.

** then **

He was mad at Eddie, for some reason.

No—he wasn’t mad at Eddie. He could _never._ He was mad at himself. He was mad at Sonia Kaspbrak, the old bitch. He was mad at his dad, and Henry Bowers, and Derry, Maine, and the dumb fucking clown that it created—the one that broke Eddie’s arm, and ate Georgie.

He was mad that Eddie was so good, and cute, and always smelled so clean. And that Richie wasn’t supposed to look at him. Not in _that_ way. 

He was also mad at Bill. Because he had punched him in the face. Fuck Bill.

That’s what has Richie in the arcade on a Wednesday afternoon. Alone. 

Or, not alone. Because there’s another boy there who likes Street Fighter too. And he’s taller than Richie, and maybe a little older. With blonde curly hair and bright blue eyes. And he gives Richie butterflies in a way that’s different from the way Eddie does, but also similar. It’s exciting. And new. And once—_once_—Richie is allowed to look at another boy and not feel guilt. Not feel sick. Wrong. Not feel _dirty._

And if Richie lets his fingertips linger too long, or his eyes wander too much, or stands too close, that’s just because he’s so fascinated by the whole thing. It’s because he doesn’t want the boy to leave and make the feeling end. Because then it’s back to Eddie. And the more he feels this way about Eddie, the more he has to hate himself.

But Richie is stupid. And greedy. And he’s ruined it all, again. Somehow. Because now the boy is backing away with something between fear, anger, and discomfort in his eyes. He’s looking at him the way Richie always imagined Eddie would, if he knew. It’s like a nightmare that’s real. And this time, it’s not even the clown.

“You didn’t tell me you had fucking _fairies_ in your town, Henry.”

_(you trying to fuck my little cousin dirty little boy dirty little secret I’m not a fucking—my son won’t be a—get out of here **faggot**!)_

** now then now then nowthennowthennow **

_(I know your secret, your **dirty little secret**!)_

_(Don’t touch them! Don’t touch the other boys, Richie! Or they’ll know!)_

_(Beep beep, Richie!)_

_(Oh, you wouldn’t want to pick truth, would you Richie?)_

_(What are you afraid of, Rich?)_

_(Derry local Adrian Mellon went missing last night following a reported hate crime—)_

_(Come back! Come back and play with the clown!)_

_(—my mouth around Richie Tozier’s cigarette—)_

_(Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock!)_

_(Do you like Stan?)_

_(All your friends will hate you, Tozier. They’ll hate you just like the rest. They’ll hate you and leave you and forget you. Little Eds most of all.)_

_(I love this song, Richie.)_

** then **

He gets a splinter carving the letters. His thumb bleeds, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it to make it real. 

Eddie will never see it—never, ever find it. But neither will Henry Bowers, God willing. Neither will his parents, or Sonia Kaspbrak. Or any of his friends. The clown will know, but he will too. And in that way, it makes Richie feel strong, and makes the clown feel just a little bit weaker. Because It can do a lot, but It can’t destroy this. Those letters are here. Forever. Until long after both he and Eddie are dead and nothing but memories. 

It’s a trade-off. The clown’s voice gets quieter in his head. Still there, but Richie can bear it. But sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can feel _R+E_ like it’s being carved into his skin, and not wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


	3. The Poem and The Bridge

**now**

Richie Tozier is a coward.

No, seriously. Which is fine—it’s something he’s long since accepted about himself. It’s important to be honest, you know. About who you really are.

Richie is forty years old, and he’s a coward.

(If this were one of his AA meetings, this is the part where everyone would give that droll, monotonous: _“Hi, Richie,”_ and then he’d sit back down, and think about what bar he was gonna hit up on the way home.)

“Richie!” Bev exclaims from the stairs when he charges into Derry Townhouse. “Are you okay? What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

_“Move,”_ is Richie’s curt reply as he pushes his way through Bev and Hot Ben. 

“Richie—what are you—”

“I’m _leaving_. Fuck this.”

“What? No.” 

And when she says it with a gasp, it’s clear that Bev is hurt. Well, she didn’t have any right to be hurt. _He_ was hurt first. He had dibs on being the fucking hurt party here. How the fuck could she not see that? That was how it was supposed to be with them. When one of them felt things, the other knew. Instinctively. Deep-down. Without having to ask. Because they really were the same. One person. Soulmates—the way all best friends should be.

Richie blinks. Realizes that when he looks at her now, he looks at her like thirteen-year-old Richie looked at thirteen-year-old Bevvie. Thinks of her the same, too. This place was killing him. _Best friends? Soulmates? _Fuckin’ _God_. He was forty. What the hell? She wasn’t any of that shit. He didn’t know _her_ from fuckin’ Adam.

The more Richie feels himself reverting back to ‘89, the more he wants _out_.

But still, maybe he was a little pissed at her right now. Because God knows if _anyone_…she should understand. She should know. If she _knew_, she wouldn’t ask him to— “Stay. You can’t leave. Richie, you can’t, if you do, we—”

“—we all die, _yeah_, Bev, fuckin’ _whatever_. Okay, way I see it, we’re all gonna die anyway.”

And with that he’s up the stairs. _At least he’s already mostly packed,_ he thinks, _from that other time in the last twenty-four hours he’d tried to pussy out._

There’s a loud wooden creak behind him, and the sound of the door slamming back into place. Richie doesn’t turn to look.

“Wow, no one knocks anymore—”

“Richie, _no.”_ It’s Ben. Richie doesn’t appreciate his tone.

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog, dude. You can’t spray me with water until I agree to stay here and kill your clown for you, or stop humping the neighbor’s leg.”

“It’s not my—” Ben growls in frustration, in a way that is—you guessed it—kinda hot. “Dammit, Richie, it’s your problem, too! I _know_ you saw something that spooked the hell outta you out there—”

Richie slaps a shirt down in his suitcase. “Nah. Nah, man, you don’t.”

“I beg your pardon?” asks Ben, politely—except it doesn’t sound at all polite.

“You don’t fuckin’ know.” He zips up his suitcase; grabs it by the handle, and slams it down on the floor. “You just don’t fuckin’ get it.”

When Richie looks up, Ben’s brow is furrowed something awful. 

Richie sighs. “Can you get the fuck outta my way, please?”

“Richie, please don’t do this.”

“Ben, move—”

“Don’t do this, Richie, I swear to God—”

And then they’re wrestling in front of the door—except it’s neither as cool nor as sexy as one might hope. It’s more along the lines of weird arm flailing and slapping hands.

“Man, I’m begging you!” Ben shouts, and Richie stops, for that. He’s still pissed though. And still leaving. He’s leaving for sure. “Look, we need you. Maybe you’re fine, just…leaving, and hoping for the best—”

“Who said I was fuckin’ hoping for jack-shit?” Richie bites, eyes narrowed. “I was told we’re all gonna die. I just fucking decided I didn’t wanna die _here._”

“Fuckin’ _fine!”_ yells Ben, and Richie blinks. “But I’m staying! We’re all…the rest of us are staying, and if you’re not here when we…” Ben gulps and runs a hand nervously through his hair. He’s looking anywhere but up at Richie. 

“I’m not gonna watch her die, man. Not because _you fucking left.”_ Ben prods a finger at his chest. A combination of Ben being Very Strong and Richie being an alcoholic with poor balance causes the gentle push to set him stumbling on two feet.

Richie tries his best to sound confident when he says: “If you guys die, man, it won’t be because I left. It’ll be because you picked a fight with a killer fucking clown, you moron.” Richie leans down, and extends the plastic handle on his suitcase, with force. Then, with laughter that’s too nervous: “Besides, you’re already down one! What’s another, amirite?”

“No—you’re not fooling anyone, with this shit about Stan, alright, Richie, we _know_, we know you’re hurting. Everyone heard last night, okay—”

“Okay. Yep. I’m leaving. See ya later, Haystack.” Richie makes another—equally successful—attempt to move past and/or through Ben.

“Stop, Richie—you’re not even gonna fuckin’ try, man? Not for Bill, or Bev, or _Eddie?_ You know this could—"

Richie’s making yelling noises with his mouth just because he’s tired and does not have any desire to hear what Ben has to say. Ben keeps shouting over him.

“—this could work! Mike has a plan, this time—we could do it _for good_, he’d be dead—”

“Uh-huh, yeah, _super_ interesting, buddy—”

“Can you not—” Ben sighs, “just put yourself in my shoes, for a—for a _second?”_

“Impossible, Benjamin, your feet are too tiny.”

“I’m begging you, here. Richie. _Please.”_ Ben’s voice breaks. “Man to man. I can’t…I…I love her, Richie. You know I…”

“Hm, well, you’ve known her for about less than twenty-four hours, so—”

“I’ve known her my whole life,” Ben says, and he’s done shouting. Richie wonders, actually, if he might be about to cry. Richie hopes that he’s not, because that’d be super awkward to have to stand there and watch. “We all have. I know you love her, too. You gonna live with yourself if she dies and you don’t? If Eddie—?”

“Okay, alright, fine, I’ll stay. Fuck.”

“…Wait, really?”

“Yeah, dude. Wha—you’re not really giving me a fuckin’ choice, here. You’re standing in front of my door and you’ve got big muscles now, so.”

Ben sighs, and places both his hands on Richie’s shoulders, hanging his head. “Richie,” his head lifts, and he smiles. “Thank you. You…_thank you_, man. And—you know, I believe in Mike. I believe him when he says this could work. I do. We could really all make it out of here. Kill It for good. Move on with our lives. We could—”

“Yeah, all right, buddy, I already told you I’m staying, you don’t need to beat a dead horse here.”

“Okay.” Ben smiles with a laugh in his eyes, and steps back. “Thanks, Richie. I mean it.”

As soon as Ben shuts the door behind him, Richie bolts out the fire escape.

**then**

His hands are shaking as he climbs up the fire escape.

_“Richie?”_ Bev asks in bewilderment. She’s sitting at her desk by the window, which is wide open to let the summer breeze flow through her bedroom, even at night, as it was now. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, uh-huh. Yeah, I think so.” He was reasonably sure, anyway. The last twenty-four hours had really fuckin’ shaken him up good though. He almost needed someone to pinch him, just to make double-sure it hadn’t all been a nightmare. He thought about asking Bev, then realized it would probably come out sounding wrong. She’d think—just ‘cause it was Richie—that he was making some dirty joke, and then smack him. So he’d settle for one of her smokes. “Listen, uh, can I…can I bum a cigarette?”

She blinks once; twice, then ushers him in through the window instead of saying anything.

Bev studies him curiously once he’s inside. Richie doesn’t blame her. When he’d set out on his bike that night, he hadn’t expected to come here. His first instinct was to go to the Kaspbrak house, of course. He didn’t even think, he’d just pedaled away, until he was parked on the street outside the little white house and remembered. He remembered that he couldn’t go up and knock on the front door. Couldn’t ask if Eddie was home. Couldn’t see him at _all._ And it had gotten him so angry, so upset, that he’d been behind Bev’s apartment building before he could stop himself, with just one thing on his mind.

“Please?” Richie asks again, since she still hasn’t said anything. “I just…I really could use one right about now.”

Bev scoffs. “I’ll say.” She takes the pack of Lucky Strikes from her desk and pulls one out, handing it to him. “You ever smoke one of these before?”

He takes it. “Uh, yeah. Sure. ‘Course. C’mon, Bev—who d’you think you’re talkin’ to?”

She doesn’t even look at him while she takes out her lighter from her pocket.

She lights it.

Richie inhales, and nearly dies.

But Bev doesn’t call him out on his obvious lie or make too much fun. She just laughs—a light and pretty thing, and says, _“try again”_.

Later, they’re passing the cigarette between themselves, sitting in front of her bed, not saying much to each other. His hands stop shaking. There’s a thought that passes through Richie’s head that says the whole situation _should_ be uncomfortable. He and Molly Ringwald are, after all, not friends. It’s not. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s kind of great.

“Your room’s pretty cool,” he says, meaning it. It’s not at all how he’d ever picture a girl’s room to look. It’s pretty messy. Not as bad as Richie’s—but still, not great. She’s got all sorts of band posters hanging up. All kinds of photos, knick-knacks, books. Papers with drawings and loose pencils all over the place. It looks lived-in. Plus, she’s even got a lava lamp.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the compliment.

Richie doesn’t ask if her dad’s home. He’s kind of afraid of the answer. He figures it’s good to be quiet, anyway, just in case. It’s a good thing, he thinks then, that neither of them really knew what to say to the other.

“Hey Richie, can I show you something?” she asks, being the most either of them have spoken since they sat down. Richie nods.

Bev gets up to walk to her end table, pulling something out of the drawer. She returns to sit back down.

She thrusts the paper in Richie’s face. He grabs it with the hand that’s not holding the cigarette.

It’s a postcard. Richie reads the words written on the back.

_Your hair is winter fire; January embers. My heart burns there, too._

“You know who wrote that?” Bev asks. 

Richie, mouth hanging open a little, shakes his head no.

Bev gives a frustrated sigh. “Neither do I.” She moves her lips around in thought. “They wrote it for me, though.”

Richie looks back to the postcard. He studies the pen strokes. Kinda scratchy, but sure of themselves. Like the words came easily, but writing them was hard. The strokes are deep, almost like they had been carved into the paper.

“I like to think sometimes it was Bill,” she admits, her voice soft in a way that Richie wonders if she meant for him to hear. “But then…I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. It’s just nice that it…that it’s mine. Like a secret. A beautiful, lovely secret.”

Richie stares at her. The first thing that’s on his mind—burning it, searing it—is no good. So, he goes with the second.

“But…you showed me.”

Bev gives him a wry smile. “No secret should stay secret forever.”

(Richie falls in love with Bev that day. It’s the easiest love he’s ever fallen into. Bev loved her poem like it was life itself, but Richie thinks that maybe he loves it second-best. It’s beautiful, and he’s sure a part of him always knew that Ben wrote it—remembered the fleeting second he pulled a postcard out of Ben’s bookbag and had it just as quickly snatched away. He guesses that means a part of him fell in love with Ben that day, too. Ben and the thing he did, which felt so much like the other thing. Ben with his beautiful words and his pen, and Richie with a knife.

Richie tries his hardest not to remember this day, as he drives with the townhouse in his rear-view.)

**now**

He doesn’t make it out of Derry.

Even from beyond the grave, Stanley Uris can’t seem to leave well-enough alone. Fuckin’ punk always seemed to know Richie better than he knew himself, somehow. Enough to where he’s able to make Richie stop and get out of the car and walk into the old synagogue on Calumet street, all without having a pulse. Richie’s grumbling and cursing Stan under his breath the whole way, just picturing his knowing eyes and smug smirk leering down at him from up there in Jew heaven.

He stands in the doorway and frowns. He doesn’t know why he’s here, and that pisses him the hell off.

Richie, hands stuffed deeply and angrily in his jacket pockets, plops himself down in a pew, stewing in his anger and self-aggrandizing mantras about his very important unfinished tour and other, better, less-murdery places he ought to be right now.

But after staring at the spot Stan had once stood at fourteen years old and performed the most brazen act of courage and goodness that Richie had ever witnessed in his life, that doesn’t last long.

It’s there—not exactly for the first time but certainly for the first time with clarity of thought—that he wishes it had been him, and not Stan, that the clown had taken first. He wishes it as he sits there and twiddles his thumbs, and tries to ignore the fact that his vision is getting wetter by the second. He wishes it, and he knows Stan hears him. He knows it because he starts to feel—of all things—something that feels a little bit like _guilt._

_(“Aw, Rich. Good for you! That’s your conscience! It’s part of having something called a moral compass.”_

_“Fuck off, Staniel. You’re dead.”)_

**then**

Richie doesn’t know why, but for some reason, after they kill the clown (the first time) and Bowers gets his ass thrown in the can, he really thought everything would get better.

(It’s mind-numbingly dumb. Like, when he looks back on it, he must’ve thought after that summer, that Derry’d turn into a place with endless candy and no parents, with rock music playing all the time and free blow jobs on Thursdays.

It, uh…didn’t.)

Bowers was gone, yes, and that made Richie’s life just a little bit easier—for a time. Long enough to preserve the second half of the summer of ’89 as, despite everything—and yes, he knows that sounds weird—the best summer of his life.

But summers end. And when school starts up again, it becomes clear to Richie that Bowers had never been the problem with Derry.

It’s almost as if nothing had changed at all. Or like the town had forgotten Henry Bowers ever even existed in the first place. New kids step in to take his place. They aren’t quite as batshit nuts, and maybe not _as_ violent, but they still know the word _fag._

They don’t even become the worst part of Richie’s existence. Not even close. The worst part isn’t the kids who beat the shit out of him after school, it’s the ones who don’t. After all, Beverly Marsh was gone, and could no longer scratch out any cruel graffiti.

And it’s not as if it’s a thing that he could share in with the rest of his friends. If they knew about the way the kids at school talked about Richie while his back was turned (and sometimes when it wasn’t), they were kind enough not to mention it. And if they didn’t…Richie wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. Because then Eddie would know. And Eddie could _not know._

As it was, Richie tried not to think about what it would mean if Eddie already did. He’d pretty much rather die than think about that.

As much as Richie hates him (he hopes he wastes away long and painful in prison. He hopes he wastes away ‘till he’s nothing at all. He hopes the other inmates beat him bloody every fuckin’ day—as bad as he did Mike—and carve words in his stomach like he’d tried to with Ben. Not once does Richie feel bad for wishing these things.), he knows it’s not Henry Bowers that poisoned this town. Or even, maybe, the clown. Although It sure-as-shit didn’t help. Richie guesses that the town was this way long before the clown got here. And would have been still, even if It never had. 

Didn’t make Bowers any less of a cunt, though.

**now**

The blade of the axe is wedged between the pieces of Bowers’ cracked skull, and it wiggles a bit as Richie lets go, and he _definitely_ sees gooey little brain bits moving around and blending with the blood pooling outside of Bowers’ head and sticking to the axe that _absolutely _should not be doing that if he were, well, y’know, an alive person.

_“Holy shit,_ Richi—”

“Well. That was pretty long overdue.”

“Are you—”

“Get it? Like, books. ‘Cause we’re in a library, oh—oop. Nope.”

He yartzes all over the hardwood flooring.

He hears Bev’s scream from the front door, and frantic running feet as she and Ben and Eddie race towards them while Richie helps Mike stand up.

“Richie, what the hell—” Eddie’s shaking his head in disbelief, staring at the dead body on the floor.

“Are you alright?” asks Ben, laced heavy with concern.

“No, I’m not alright! I just fucking killed a guy!”

Ben’s eyes narrow in a way that reminds Richie that he and Ben are not on _good_ terms. “I was talking to Mike.”

Yeah, well. Fuck Ben.

Ben moves to tend to Mike’s wounds, and Bev steps out for a smoke. Richie watches from a safe distance as Eddie sinks himself—shakily—down into a chair. He’s pale, Richie thinks as he takes a cautious step closer. And he looks really tired. And—

“Jeez, Eddie, you’re hurt!” with that, Richie is kneeling on the floor in front of him, trying to get a better look at the bandage on his cheek that he was somehow dumb enough not to notice until now.

Richie’s hand comes up—a fuckin’ _inch_ away from Eddie’s cheek—when he stops himself. He feels his face go hot and he clears his throat. His hand drops to his side.

Eddie gives a nervous smile.

“Yeah, uh…Bowers got me good, I guess.”

“Bowers? Whaddya mean?”

“He stopped by the town house before coming here. He was in my bathroom.”

Richie swallows.

“Th—the town house, huh?”

Eddie nods, furrowing his brow slightly. “You good? You look a little…”

“Hm? Yeah, oh, yeah, I’m—” Richie stands. His palms start to sweat and itch. His breathing picks up. 

He wasn’t there. He _wasn’t there._ Eddie could have died. Just like Ben said. He would’ve died, bled out in the town house bathroom. And Richie wouldn’t have known. Would’ve been on his way to Reno in his fancy fuckin’ red car that he’d rented just to show off, muttering about how he didn’t care, all the way until he was past the state line and couldn’t remember what the name _Eddie_ even meant to him anymore.

“’Chee?” Eddie squeaks from behind him.

Richie freezes, and turns.

Eddie is frozen too.

_“What did you call me?”_

“Sorry.” Eddie has straightened his spine. His jaw clenches. He doesn’t look at Richie.

“No, Eddie, what—”

Eddie closes his eyes; shakes his head. “Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Eds, no, it’s fine, I just…you haven’t…I haven’t heard that in…”

“No, I know. That’s why I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry. Just drop it, please.”

Richie blows air out through his cheeks. He paces, massaging his temples with one hand, to soothe the familiar headache that he now remembers seemed to always flare up with these distinctly frustrating _Eddie_-situations. He can feel Eddie’s eyes following him. 

_“Fuck it”_ seems to be the mantra that wins out, and Richie moves to slide on top of a display case next to Eddie—sitting so close their knees bump against each other when Richie swings his legs.

“You only ever called me that when you wanted something.”

Eddie looks—adorably—offended. His chest puffs out and everything.

“Fuck off. That’s not true.”

Richie shoots him a real bastard grin. “Oh, yeah, it is. It was you tryna be cute.”

“I wasn’t trying to be—”

“It always worked, didn’t it?” Richie only grins bigger. He gives his right leg a purposeful swing, just for the contact. It’s a selfish moment, all in all.

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it, swallowing air. His frown is impossibly endearing. Like not-fucking-fair adorable.

“I did _not_ only call you that when I wanted something,” he repeats, firmer this time.

“I guess that’s true,” Richie concedes. “You also did it when you were flirting.”

He isn’t exactly sure how the thought manages to make it from his brain to his mouth so fast—or more pressingly, why he doesn’t seem to be having an aneurysm about it. Instead, Richie just keeps grinning, even as Eddie turns (in no exaggeration) beet-red. Richie thinks he might actually be vibrating with anger.

“Which,” Richie continues, with a death wish. “I guess can also be argued as you _wanting something_, but hey—” he wriggles his eyebrows.

“I could fucking murder you, you know. No one here would stop me.”

“That’s probably true.”

“They would all testify in my favor at the trial.”

“Uh-huh. Probably right.” It is, actually. Ben for sure. Bev probably out of spite. He supposes he did just save Mike’s life, so maybe that’s working in his favor. Bill always liked Eddie better, anyway.

“That’s not why I…why I called you that.”

“Gotcha.”

“It was just a nickname. It just stuck. You call me _Eds_. It’s like the same thing.”

Richie smirks. “Yep. I bet it is.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Stop that.”

“So why did you call me that just now?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Why did you call me _‘Chee_ two minutes ago? Did you want something, or were you just flirting?”

_“Richard—"_

“Oh, it’s _Richard_ now, is it? Well, I guess that’s appropriate, since you’ve already gotten me into bed—”

“Alright. That’s enough.” Eddie starts to stand up and leave, and, well, that just won’t do.

“Eddie, I always liked it. You know I did. Sit down, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Eddie—though painfully skeptical—does, in fact, sit back down. They don’t talk for a few seconds. Eddie takes a loud, deep breath—loud like he wants Richie to hear that he’s taking it. Then he says, quieter:

“I’m sorry I…earlier…you wanted to talk about last night, and I blew you off.”

Richie blinks. _“You didn’t blow me off, Eds. I think I would’ve remembered,”_ sits in his brain and on the tip of his tongue so bad it _itches._ But Richie knows that saying it would absolutely make Eddie stand up and leave again. So he behaves.

Eddie continues. “I just want you to know, that the reason I—”

“Nah, we don’t need to talk about it, Eds. I get it. You went out of your way to do a really nice thing for me, and I appreciate that. Y’know. Staying last night. Sorry if I made it…y’know, awkward or somethin’, I just thought you weren’t talking to me. I dunno. Maybe I got it into my head that you’d be worried what your pretty little wife would think if you woke up next to markedly successful and unconventionally handsome comedian Richie Tozier.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to blink. “I…Richie—”

“Eds, you’re bleeding.”

_“Dammit Richie,_ will you let me get a fucking word—”

“No, Eddie, really, your bandage is bleeding.”

“What? Oh, _for fuck—”_

**then**

He had tried. He had tried to go back to Eddie’s house. The day after It had broken his arm.

He didn’t have a big boombox to play Phil Collins out of, like in that God-awful movie Sarah dragged him to go see. But he did have the Footloose soundtrack on cassette (Sarah’s. He hadn’t asked, but, eh. She probably wouldn’t miss it.), and Richie thought that was just as good. He hoped it might cheer Eddie up, at least. Richie’d seen the look on his face after his mom had shoved him into their station wagon, and swore if he could help it, he’d never see it again.

He had woken up bright and early too, in the hopes that Sonia might still be asleep when he got there. Eddie wouldn’t be. He was a 6am-riser, every day. Drove Richie nuts at sleepovers. 

So he doesn’t even bother stopping at the front door—not that he ever did, unless he felt specifically like pissing off a morbidly obese, middle-aged hypochondriac that day. He bikes into the backyard and tosses the bike at the foot of the big tree. He’s already climbed up over onto the rafters and has his fist raised to knock on Eddie’s bedroom window when he realizes that no one’s inside. 

Richie frowns.

That’s not right.

He knocks anyway, figuring Eddie might be in the bathroom or something. But—and perhaps Richie already sort of knows this—he’s not. The lights are out. Eddie’s backpack is gone.

Slower now, Richie climbs back down the tree. He’s still thinking about the sight of the empty bedroom and why it made him so sad as he picks up his bike and begins walking it back out towards the sidewalk at the front of the house.

And of course, he’s hanging his head, so he doesn’t see the nose of the car peeking out from where it’s parked on the road.

_“You.”_

Richie’s head snaps upward.

Sonia Kaspbrak stands in his path—one hand on her hip and her car keys dangling from the other. Her face, Richie thinks, is twisted something awful. Or maybe that’s just how she looks, he honestly hasn’t really paid that close attention.

Richie isn’t scared. He narrows his eyes, and raises his chin.

“Where’s Eddie?”

Sonia’s face begins to purse. 

“What are you doing sneaking around our house at six in the morning?” she counters. “Don’t think I won’t call the police.”

_“Where’s Eddie?”_ Richie asks again, teeth gritted.

If Sonia’s eyes could leak flames, they would.

“In Augusta with my sisters. The doctors there are more attentive.” 

“When’s he coming back?”

“When he’s _better.”_

Richie didn’t know what the hell that meant. Kid broke his arm. Put him in a cast, smack him on the ass and tell him to walk it off. He’ll be fine.

He doesn’t say this. Instead, he squeezes his lips shut tight and wriggles them around in weird shapes so he won’t be tempted to open them. It’s what Eds would want. _“Don’t say anything to piss her off, Rich, okay? You know that always makes it back to me, and I get the shit for it.”_ Richie silently congratulates himself for an impressive show of restraint, given the circumstances.

“Not that it concerns you,” the old bat went on. “I meant what I said. If I so much as catch wind of you near my son again, you’ll have hell to pay.”

All right, well, that’s it. He tried. Good show.

“Good luck with that. _Your son_ has to go school sometime, Mrs. K. Now, don’t have an aneurysm or anything, but I’m there too. Five days a week, the whole deal. Well, most weeks, anyway. When I feel like it. Look, point is, we’ll still see each other, and we’ll still be best friends, and if you don’t like that, then you can shove it, ma’am.”

Richie has a good moment to revel in his victory. It’s pretty nice, too. Dumb broad has this look like she’s just been smacked across the face, and doesn’t say anything for a good few seconds either. 

That ends pretty quick, unfortunately. Mrs. K’s back straightens out and she starts wearing this awful smile like she knows something Richie doesn’t, which he doesn’t like much at all.

She’s looking down the short, pudgy bridge of her nose at him, when she says:

“You think I don’t know all about you?” She leans in a little. Richie wrinkles his nose and leans away twice the distance. Her little smile grows. “Oh, yes. This town talks. I know what people say.”

It’s not as if Richie knows at first, what she means. Not exactly, anyway. There were plenty of reasons people around town had little love for the Tozier kid. Could be that his parents were boozers, or that his sister fooled around a bit, or that he egged a house or two. Or three. This month. All strong possibilities. More likely, it was that his folks weren’t particularly well-off since his dad fell into a bunch of real shady debt a few years back, He knew very well how Mrs. K felt about gambling, since she caught Richie last year trying to teach Eddie Blackjack (It was for the best, anyway. Eds was pretty garbage at it.).

In any of those cases, he could handle the upturned nose and her shit-eating little smirk. He’d bitch to Eddie about it next time he saw him, and Eddie would laugh (and it would sound wonderful), and swap some Sonia war stories of his own. Hating Eddie’s mom was an activity that brought them both together. And being together was the only thing that took the edge off the knowledge of how shitty Eddie’s home life really was.

“And I’ve seen the way you _look_ at my son.”

…Is not what Richie expected her to say.

The first thing he notices is his throat going very dry. And his head getting all fuzzy. And a feeling like a hole was punched straight through his gut, stopping his heart.

Then, he realizes…he can’t breathe.

“Don’t think I won’t tell him. You think he’ll speak to you again if I do? Dirty little boy like you, with_ filthy, vile_ thoughts running through your head?”

Richie can’t breathe.

“He lets you pollute him just because he doesn’t know any better.” Sonia tells him. “You think you know my Eddie better than anyone? Just how well does he tolerate _filth?_ How long will he stay your friend once he knows _what you are?”_

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he can’t—he can’t—

He’s dragging his bike out into the street before he knows it. Sonia doesn’t call out after him, or he doesn’t hear her, or…

It feels like he’s dying. This must be what dying feels like.

He expects to see a red balloon float past any second. A clown’s laughter. Its knowing grin. He doesn’t. And that makes it worse. If he had, it might have made it bearable. If he had, he could run home and curl up into a ball and tell himself it wasn’t real until, eventually, it went away enough so he could breathe normal again.

But the clown doesn’t come. 

Eddie’s gone.

And Richie can’t breathe.

**now**

“Maybe you should see a therapist.”

It’s the first thing Eddie’s said since Richie first saw him at the Jade Orient that makes him laugh from his belly. Loud and sincere. Directly in Eddie’s dead-serious face.

“Oh God, that’s good.”

“No, Rich, I’m serious.”

“I know you are. When are you not?”

Richie’s just placed the last bit of tape on Eddie’s new bandage. He has a sudden urge to slap him fondly on the cheek that he—for Eddie’s sake—represses.

“Well just…a few minutes ago, when we were talking about Bowers, you stood up, you looked like you were maybe having some anxiety symptoms—and look, I’m not judging, I would know, I take Klonopin—"

“—Eds. Eds. Eddie. Listen, pal, thank you, for your concern. You’re right. I should probably see a therapist. I should probably do a lot of things. If you don’t mind, I’ll deal with the murder clown first. Seems a little more pressing than my mental health.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s…yeah. Right. Sorry, Richie.”

“What for?”

“I just…uh. I don’t mean to overstep. I know I…I probably already have. In more ways than one.”

Richie thinks about this. He sees the slight frown on Eddie’s face, which he doesn’t like. He does find it ironic, that _Eddie’s_ the one who’s worried about saying too much.

“…Is it?”

“What?”

“Overstepping?” Richie asks, boring his eyes into Eddie’s.

Eddie swallows. He turns his gaze down to the floor, then back up to Richie.

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, Christ, you know we used to be—”

“I know.”

“—best friends.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad at me?”

Eddie blinks. “…What?”

Richie coughs. “I mean…did I say something? Do something? Are you PMS-ing? What?”

Eddie looks back at him like a goddamn deer in headlights. 

_“Eds?”_

“Don’t call me that,” but he says it fondly, with a half-smile that has Richie’s heart all jammed up in his throat as big brown eyes shine back up at him through thick lashes—and in a second, he’s thirteen fuckin’ years-old again. 

Eddie suddenly looks down at the floor and starts swinging his legs, trying to hide the way he’s screwing his face up in thought.

“No…no, Richie, I…” he starts. “I’m sorry. Really, it’s not you. Guess I’m on edge, is all.”

Richie nods. He can accept that. “Sure,” he says. “We all are.”

“Difference is you never show it. You…you’re always so cool under pressure.”

“Eduardo, I just axed a guy in the back of the head then puked all over this library’s hundred-year-old floor.”

Eddie frowns. “God, you’re right. Were you always this unhinged and I just never noticed?”

“Yeah, pretty much, Eds.”

“You know…usually you’d have to get me drunk for me to admit this…”

“Do go on.” Richie leans in leeringly.

“…but I used to think you were the coolest person on the planet. ‘S why I followed you around all the time. Couldn’t believe you even tolerated me.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Okay.”

“For you. Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing for you. I can’t believe you admitted to that.”

“Fuck you. Die in a fire.”

Richie throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Really. Listen, Eds, seriously. In all seriousness. Let’s…let’s start over, alright? Let’s catch up. Tell me, uh…tell me…tell me about your wife.” Richie wishes he could smack himself. 

“My _wife?”_

“Yeah, fuck, isn’t that what people ask when they haven’t seen each other in a while? How’s the family; how’re the kids?”

“No. No kids.” Eddie says quickly. Richie feels a pang of something dangerously close to relief, which he keeps silent.

“Uh…okay. So, wife, then. Show me a picture. Nudes, if you got ‘em.”

“God, you’re so fucking disgusting. Why do you want to see a picture of my wife?”

“Because I was your best friend and I want to see the chick you’ve been screwing for the past twenty-seven years, Jesus Christ, Eds, we’ve been over this. Show me the goods!”

For a reason Richie, this time, truly cannot discern, Eddie’s face looks once again heated and angry. 

“Fine,” he spits, reaching into his back pocket for his phone—violently, if that were possible. 

“What’s the big deal here, Eds? Am I missing something? What—is she an uggo? You can tell me, Eddie. There’s no shame in marrying an ugly woman. I’ll assume she has an amazing personality, and say nothing of it. Cross my heart and hope to—_holy goddamn shit.”_

Richie has grown numb at the image on the phone being shoved rather unceremoniously in his face.

Eddie is wincing. Still, somehow, angrily. (Richie, until this very moment, didn’t know how someone _could_ wince angrily.)

“Um. Eddie.”

Eddie says nothing.

“Eddie, this is a photo of your mother.”

_“Fuck. You.”_

Richie is laughing now, partly out of fear of the unknown. “What the _fuck!_ Jesus, Eds! She’s the spitting image! What does Sonia think about this? She can’t approve. Or maybe she does, hell. That’d be fuckin’ weird, but I wouldn’t put it past—”

“My mom’s dead, Richie.”

Well, if anything could suck all the air and life out of a conversation, it’d be Sonia Kaspbrak’s big fat ghost.

“Oh. Man, I…” Richie starts, not knowing where he’s going.

“Don’t. Don’t…say anything, okay. You don’t have to. I know what she was.”

Richie thinks it’s great that Eddie has removed_ that_ particular burden from his shoulders. _Having_ to say something to someone about their dead mom carries a real awful weight with it, and a real strict template to boot: _“I’m sorry for your loss”, “She loved you very much”_—all that shit that both of them knew wasn’t true and that, frankly, made Richie wanna gag again. That does, however, leave the door open for what Richie _wants_ to say. 

Richie takes a step closer. “I mean, it sucks. But you’re right, I’m not sorry. She was a bitch, and she was fuckin’ awful to you. Your whole life. You didn’t deserve that.”

Eddie nods. He turns his gaze once more toward the floor, and continues nodding. Richie wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes he’d look at him, so he could know Eddie believed it.

“Look, I…yeah, I think your wife looks like your dead, abusive mom, but I’m sure she’s a peach. I’m…sure she’s nothing like her. Sorry I—”

“I don’t really want to talk about my wife or my mom anymore, Richie.”

“Okay.”

Richie is stricken with the keenest sense that this attempt to rekindle the flames of friendship is not going as well as he’d hoped. He takes a few seconds to think, then re-approaches the conversation with new energy.

“Hey! Did you catch my new comedy special?”

“We’re moving from my dead mother to your _comedy special?”_

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

Eddie shakes his head, resigning himself to it. “I did, actually.”

“And?”

“I thought it was really awful. Even before I knew who you were.”

“Gee, Eds, you don’t have to say all that. You know, flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Let me rephrase: I thought your set was awful before I knew who you were, and now that I do, I know that _you_ know it’s awful, too.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not…half bad,” Richie grumbles.

“You’re better than that. I don’t get it. Why don’t you write your own stuff?”

“I dunno. Some people do, some people don’t, y’know? It’s how I’ve always done it. Well, ever since I had people willing to write for me. It’s just, uh…it works for me.”

“But it doesn’t. It stinks.”

“Well, thanks a bunch for the encouragement.”

“This _is_ me encouraging you, to write your own jokes. ‘Cause you should.” Then, quieter, and after an unmissable beat: “You’re fuckin’ funny.”

“Uh—I’m sorry, come again?”

“No.”

“No, I really didn’t hear you.”

“Screw you, I’m not gonna say it again.”

“I’d really like it if you did, though.”

Richie knew what his face must look like. Teeth stretching from ear-to-ear, and big, shiny eyes made even bigger by the glasses. He must look as giddy as he felt. If it weren’t colored by the clown shit, this might be the single greatest moment of his life. 

Eddie’s smile, on the other hand, doesn’t stay for very long. Today, Richie’s observed, his momentary happiness seems to have a shelf-life of about three seconds before it twists itself into something Richie can’t identify. 

“You remember anything more?” Eddie asks, tearing his eyes up and away from his feet.

“Huh?”

“Last night, you…said you remembered more every hour. Do you have it all back yet?”

Richie makes a noncommittal noise and a shrugging motion with his shoulders, as it becomes his turn to look at the floor. 

“What’s the last thing you—”

“You don’t wanna know the last thing.”

“…Oh.”

“Not sure _I_ wanted to know the last thing.” Richie becomes faintly aware of the fact that he’s absently running his fingers through his own hair, and that he’s pretty sure he’s coming down with something because his forehead feels fuckin’ _hot._ “Jesus, I hate being back in this fucking town.”

“’S not all bad, though,” Eddie murmurs.

_“What?_ Hell do you mean it’s not all bad? I’m being chased around my hometown by a killer clown that knows all my inner fears, and every five seconds it’s another surprise flashback to my dead best friend, or Bowers calling me a _fag_—except most of the time, actually, the worst stuff is _you,_ and all this _shit_ I’d never realized I—”

But he’d said it. And it was too late.

“Richie…?”

“No. F-fuck. Forget it. _Fuck.”_

He can’t look back at him. With shaking hands, he leaves out the front door, and presses Bev for another smoke.

**then**

Bethany Kowalski’s house sits in the middle of Waverly Street, and it’s three stories of stone and brickwork. The catch, of course, is that it falls _just_ outside of the Derry city limits. There were sure-as-shit no houses like this actually _in_ the town. 

It is the nicest house Richie’s ever seen.

He gulps, puts the truck in park on the street, climbs out and brushes off his tux with the lint roller he’d pulled from his parents’ closet. Then he throws it in the glove compartment. Sarah had long since left Derry for college, but a couple extra-long phone calls, and she had helped Richie pull together something that he thought looked pretty decent, if he had anything to say about fashion. Sure, light pink was unconventional for dudes, but he was only using it as a…what did she call it…_accent color._ It was just the bowtie and cummerbund (Richie thought that word was _great_.). The tux was black.

_“Aren’t you worried about matching her dress?”_ Sarah had asked before saying anything else.

_“Nah, Sarah. It’s really not like that.”_

Truth be told, Richie didn’t know what it_ was_ like. He’d worried for _hours_ over whether or not to get the girl a fucking corsage. And then—and only because Sarah had put the dumb idea in his head—he worried for a couple hours more about whether or not he should ask Bethany about the color of her dress before buying one.

He didn’t, deeming the mere idea of picking up the phone and calling Bethany to ask some shit like that one of those desperately uncomfortable social situations he’d rather die than take part in. He went out and bought one with some white flowers and called it a fuckin’ day. White went with everything—and he was pretty sure black flowers weren’t naturally occurring. 

Anyway, moral of the story is that prom is a nightmare and Richie already hates it.

He was in for one hell of a long night.

He walks up the Kowalskis’ sidewalk with the corsage box in his hands, and is nearly to the front door when it flies open. Bethany steps out, bare feet and heels in hand, and looks like she barely registers Richie standing there. She shuts the door carefully behind her, hardly making a sound.

When she turns around and her eyes land on Richie, she does a double-take.

_“What the hell are you doing? I told you to wait in the car!” _she snaps, but it sounds like she’s still trying to be quiet, so Richie, as a courtesy, whispers too.

_“Yeah, but I just thought—”_

_“Go! Go, go, go!”_ she’s waving him on back to the truck, so he turns and books it, Bethany at his heels. 

They pile in and slam the doors closed. Richie takes one look at the box in his lap, and doesn’t even complete a full thought before Bethany’s saying:

“Richie, come on, drive already.”

He tosses the thing in the backseat and does as the lady asks.

At Bill’s, most everyone’s already gathered outside, leaning against their cars and trying to pre-game in a way that isn’t obvious to any neighbors peeking outside their windows.

Bethany’s already primed to open the door latch as soon as Richie turns off the car, but he stops her.

“Hey, uh, wait, hold on.” He reaches into the backseat as she shoots him a look equal parts concern and confusion. 

_Yeah, you and me both,_ he thinks.

“Before we go, I just, uh…I got this for you.”

She takes the box in both hands and looks down at it, looking utterly uncomfortable in a way that has Richie wanting to turn the truck back on and drive it into the tree on Bill’s front lawn.

“Um, thanks. Richie, you really didn’t need to…”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just…I thought it was the thing to do, you know?”

She looks at him and gives the closest thing to a smile he bets she’s able to give, given the horribly awkward circumstances.

“You look great,” he tells her, thinking that it’s just about the only place the conversation can go at this point. 

And she did. She always did. Bethany Kowalski was a good lookin’ girl, and as it so happens, it’s only just occurring to Richie how fuckin’ bizarre it is that she wasn’t able to snag a prom date that wasn’t, well, him. 

She had big, permed, dark brown hair, and a great body, and pretty green eyes. Turned out, her dress was blue, though. And as there probably wasn’t a worse-looking color combination that Richie could think of than pink and blue, seemed Sarah had been right about something after all.

“Thanks,” she says, continuing to smile tightly in a way that is just begging Richie to release her from this conversation.

Thinking of nothing else to say—and also, sort of coming around to Bethany’s desperate need to cease all attempts to speak to one another—Richie gives her a nod and unlocks his car door.

Megan Thomas gives him a catcall whistle as he steps out of his truck and onto Bill’s driveway, which he deeply appreciates. He appreciated Megan more with pretty much every day, and needed to remind himself to impress upon Bill that he was not allowed to fuck this one up.

_“Richard Tozier!”_ she calls out. “Look at you! So you _do _clean up, huh?”

Richie holds his arms up and out in a messiah-like pose. 

“Ladies and gentle-worms,” he greets.

Bill, looking about as clean-cut and handsome as he usually does times fifty, shakes his head fondly and takes a big final gulp of his beer before tossing the bottle in the trash can next to him.

“Where’s mine?” Richie pouts.

“T-t-too late, Tozier. We’re just w-w-waiting on Eddie, then we’re leaving.”

Stan walks out the front door of Bill’s house, heading straight for the beer he left sitting by Bill’s car. Richie perks up.

“There’s my circumcised little angel! Hey Stan, you gonna drink all that?”

“Blow me.”

“Patience, Stanley. The fun stuff happens after prom.”

Bethany’s already taken up chatting away with Megan and Suzanne, which Richie takes as a good sign. Less work for him, if she was gonna entertain herself most of the night.

“Hey, R-Richie,” Bill calls. “So I f-figured—I can only take t-t-two more in mine, figured I’d take S-S-Stan and Suzanne, and Eddie can r-ride with you.”

“Oh, uh…”

“Th-th-that alright?”

“Well, uh, actually—thing is—"

“H-h-hey! There he is!”

It was a new feeling, Richie’s heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach with Eddie’s arrival. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Things used to be better. Easier. Seeing Eddie was always the best thing that could possibly happen to him in a day. Now, it was almost the worst. Not nearly in the same vein as running into prison escapee Henry Bowers, or seeing a puppy get hit by a car. But maybe not too much farther up the list, either. 

And Richie hated that more than anything. It took Mike’s Loser Prom to remind him of just what the two of them had lost over the years. To give him a glimpse of what things could have been, if only _something_ had been different. Richie, for the life of him, didn’t know what.

Richie turns, and forces himself to look. 

He’s brought back to the days Sarah would babysit him and force him to watch her awful chick flicks (This happened with such frequency that Richie now knows most of them by heart.). His least favorite part was always those scenes where the guy turns around to see the girl for the first time, and some really cheesy love ballad starts playing, and the whole thing’s shot in slow-motion for _dramatic effect._ Like that was somehow supposed to evoke some aspect of what happens in real life. He may have been, like, ten, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t what falling in love felt like.

Unfortunately for Richie, when he turns around to look towards the edge of the sidewalk, he’s pretty sure he can hear the first notes of “Purple Rain” start playing in his head. And then Eddie’s looking back at him—slow, like time had stopped.

“Hey, we should get moving. I’m freezing.” Bethany has appeared on his arm, and Richie has half a mind to shake her off like a bug. When he looks back up, Eddie’s looked away, starting some conversation with Stan. 

It’s not fair to her, because he’s sure she’s a nice enough girl, but part of him wishes Bethany Kowalski would somehow get miraculously struck by lightning on their way to the prom. Hey, at least her hair would look the same.

“Yeah, right, um,” he clears his throat. “Bill, I’m gonna get the truck started.”

Bill nods, and starts to usher Megan, Suzanne and Stan over to his car.

“Eduardo! Andale! You comin’?”

“Uh…yeah. Sure. Be right there,” Eddie calls back. 

Richie moves to open the passenger door for Bethany. As she climbs in, Richie looks back and watches as Eddie runs up the driveway to Stan, pulling him aside. He grabs him by the shoulders, saying something Richie can’t hear. Stan nods, and Eddie gives him a firm pat on his shoulder before they head off their separate ways.

“You good?” Richie asks him impatiently when he returns, with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, Richie. I’m good.” Eddie says matter-of-factly, and nothing more about it.

The drive to the school is silent.

Richie grips the steering wheel white-knuckled, and tries not to think, although it proves kind of difficult when he has nothing but his thoughts to pass the time with. 

He thinks about how it’s definitely not right that Eddie should be going to prom stag. He thinks about that a lot. He tries not to think about the way Eddie’s hair is slicked back, or the way he’s not wearing a tie, and has the first few buttons of his white shirt undone like he was a fucking porn star or something. He tries not to think about the way girls will look at Eddie, dressed like that. He tries not to think about Eddie not being stag by the end of the night, and he tries not to think about why he cares.

That string of trying not to think about things lasts him until he’s parked the car in the school parking lot, and Eddie and Bethany have both climbed out.

His forehead hits the top of the steering wheel, and will probably bruise later.

“Richie! Jesus, hurry up!” Bethany calls out through the open window. Richie groans, and doesn’t care that it’s audible.

Once inside, Bethany abandons him immediately in favor of the punch bowl, which is an arrangement that suits him fine. 

“C’mon, Rich,” Eddie says from his side. “Cheer up. Can’t be all bad. Hey, at least they’re playing Bowie.”

He’s right. “Modern Love” croons from the speakers at the front of the hall.

“Alright, I’ll stay. But you have to agree to bust me out if they start playing garbage, you hear? Hell, I’ll owe ya a dance if you do me that solid.”

Eddie’s eyes are shining up at him. There’s color on his cheeks. One side of his lips raise in stifled amusement.

“Deal.”

Bill snags them all a table in the corner, where he, Megan and Suzanne continue to have what sounds like a lively and hilarious conversation. Stanley remains very interested in his punch.

“Date leave you already, Rich?” he asks monotonously as Richie pulls up a chair to his left.

“Yeah, put it in the Guinness Book of Records.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s already run off to join a lesbian colony.”

“God, you’re a charmer.”

“That’s me.” Stanley looks around briefly. “Where’d Eddie go?”

“Oh, uh…” Richie’s eyes settle on a small group all the way across the room, and a spot of shiny black hair among them. “There. Mr. Popular. I think he’s found his track buddies.”

It’s absolutely stunning to both him and Stanley when Bethany returns with not just one, but two glasses of punch, and some baked goods on the side. Stan nearly chokes on his own drink at the sight of her.

“What are we talking about?” she asks the table as she slides into the chair Richie’s already got his arm around, setting his punch down in front of him. “Anything good?”

“Over/under on s-s-spiking of the punch bowl.” Bill tells her with a shiny white grin.

“Already taken care of,” Richie informs him.

Bill gives a nervous laugh. “I’m s-s-sorry?”

“I know people.”

“I knew I was friends with you for a reason,” Stan says, and tosses his punch back with something resembling a smile.

The DJ takes it upon himself to start playing some TLC song, and from Bethany’s face, Richie knows he’s not escaping it. She’s pulling him by the hand out onto the floor as Bill and Stan cheer and _whoop_ mockingly behind him.

The first thing Richie thinks is strange is, of course, that Bethany has any interest in dancing with him at all. The second is that when he looks down at their hands, he sees she actually has his corsage around her wrist.

“Don’t take this the wrong way or nothin’,” he starts once they’re out in the middle of the floor and have started moving and grinding along with the masses. “But I kinda figured you weren’t gonna want anything to do with me tonight.”

“What made you think that?” she shouts back to him over the noise.

“Oh, y’know, everything.”

“I still wanna have a good time, Richie. From what I’ve heard, you’re good for that.”

The third thing, is that Bethany’s body is _much_ closer to Richie’s than he had ever imagined it would be. So close that he’s made keenly aware of her lack of a bra.

It’s out of panic when his hands find her hips.

The song changes to something a bit more his speed—“You Spin Me ‘Round” starts blaring through the speakers—and Bill and Megan and Stan with Suzanne come out to join them, punch refills and more cookies in hand.

He can’t find Eddie in the crowd.

But the guy he’d paid to spike the punch must’ve thrown in twice what he paid for, because after Richie’s second glass, the colors on the dance floor were all sort of starting to blend together, and any hope he had of finding that spot of black hair again was shot. 

At some point, Bill and Megan leave to get refills for everyone. Richie can’t exactly remember when, or even when he drank and finished his third cup.

_“Doesanyone think these drinks arkinda strong?”_ he slurs into his glass. No one hears him, apparently.

Once the next song comes on, Richie knows he’s done for.

“I gotta—I gotta go sit down,” he announces to everyone in his proximity.

Bill, Megan, and especially Bethany, all start to whine.

“Aw, d-d-don’t puss out now, Richard!”

“Not this one, Richie! You have to stay! Just one more!”

Bethany grabs ahold of his hand in almost a death-grip.

“Not yet. C’mon. Please, for me.” She pouts in a very sexy way that shouldn’t really work on him, but Richie honestly just doesn’t have the energy to say no again. 

Every spin has him just about ready to puke. And he doesn’t know if all of that’s the alcohol, or Bethany’s proximity, or the very, very painful fact that he knows he needs to see Eddie and can’t find him. Or the fact that there are so, so many _colors_ in this room! So many! And he’d never seen them before!

_“You’re grown (so grown up),”_

Pink and blue and pink and red—

_“So grown (so grown up),”_

Purple and blue and pink—

_“Now I must say more than ever,”_

Green and green and blue and blue—

_“(Come on Eileen),”_

Pink and yellow and red and _black_—

_“Too ra loo ra too ra loo rye aye—”_

“Eddie! Eddie, I—”

“Richiiiee, come onn!” Bethany is pulling him back by the arm, with surprising strength for a girl her age. Probably pulls a joint out of its socket or something. Eddie is gone. Richie looks up in time to see the front door swing shut.

He’s batting Bethany away with his other hand like she’s a gnat.

“Nah, no, Beth, I gotta…I really don’t feel well, I gotta…”

But then the song is switching, and it’s slow. Bethany grabs his hand hard, like she really means it this time. Richie, eyes wide with alarm, turns back to her.

“Richie, as my date you have _one_ job, and it’s this. Do _not_ flake on me now.”

For a second, he almost does it. Almost recoils back into that part of himself he secretly hates but tells people he doesn’t. The part of himself that says that Bethany Kowalski’s smokin’ hot, and dancing with her at prom is what any sane person’d do. It’s what he’s supposed to do. Because it’s safe, and normal, and Bill’s watching—and Megan too, and their whole junior class. And if he does dance with her, she’ll probably put out tonight, which is just about the only action he’s got a shot at getting anyway, so he might as well go for it.

_“I don’feel well,”_ he says instead, with a pout. ‘Cause it’s really true.

Bethany’s face turns evil. She releases his hand with a shove.

“God, _fuck_ you, Richie.”

It doesn’t sting like it should. In fact, he barely hears her say it. As soon as she lets go, he’s turning around and pushing through the crowd, then stumbling out the front door.

“Eds—Eds, Eddie! Eddie, where’d you—”

He’s not three steps out the door before he’s turning and puking in the bushes. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and keeps walking. He thought the colors might stop when he left the school, but they haven’t. The parking lot’s colors too—the cars, the yellow lines, the people making out against the hoods, and the stars and the sky, too. Music drifts out faintly from the building behind him, and it sounds dreamy and far-away.

“Hey, Richie, you okay?” he hears Stan’s voice, but doesn’t know where it’s coming from.

_“Yeaaah_, yeah I’m good, _Stannnlley_, I’m good. _Don’worry ‘boume._ Gah, you’re _sucha goofriend.”_

Richie spins around what feels like one-too-many times before finally seeing a figure standing in front of a block of light and recognizing it must be Stan standing at the door.

“Why don’t you come on back inside?” Stanley asks.

“Nah! No! _Gotafindeddie,” _Richie informs him. “’Sides Beth…Bethany hates me.”

“Did she say that?”

_“Pre’much._ Gotta…gotta find Eddie. Gotta…”

“Oo-okay. Good luck.”

“Thank you!” Richie gives him a big thumbs up. _“Thankyouvermuch.”_

Richie walks. He doesn’t know where to, exactly. He just walks. And he’s aware of very cursory things, like cars passing him by on the road, and the sound of the dance getting further and further away until it’s barely a sound at all—but not where he’s going. That part happens by accident.

When he stops to take a breather and sets his hands down on a wooden beam, he knows where he is, and knows it well. The wood screams at him and burns his hands. He swears—to no one—and immediately reaches into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.

“Those’ll kill ya.”

Richie whips around. Eddie stands in the street.

“Eddie! Jesus, you…you really scared—”

“You’re really drunk, huh?”

Richie sniffles in the cold. “Yeah. _Yeahalittle._ ‘Cept, I dunno how. I only had, like, three glasses of that punch, and those are pretty small glasses! Tyler musta put a lotta booze in there. Those cookies were really good though, I had _so many_ of them—”

“Richie, there was pot in those cookies.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That explains it.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie looks good. And he’s a little bit clearer now. He looks real good. A little flushed, maybe. But really pretty. Richie looks down, and starts kicking the toe of his shoe into the sidewalk, over and over. 

“I’ve never had pot before.”

“Richie, what are you doing out here?”

“Lookin’ for you.”

_“Why?”_ The word is very sharp, like a knife, and it gives Richie a little bit of pause.

“I ‘unno.” He shrugs limply. “I forgot.”

“You _forgot?”_

“Yeah, shit, Eddie, I’m really…drunk, high, somethin’.”

_“You don’t know?!”_

“Why’re you yelling at me?”

Eddie’s face gets clearer and clearer. The clearer it gets the more Richie wishes it would get blurrier. Eddie’s eyes are red and wet.

“Because I never do! I never yell at you! I just say shit passive-aggressively and hope you get it! But now I…” Eddie shakes his head and swallows.

“What? Get _what?”_ Richie’s mad now, too. He has a right to be. He’s very disoriented and being yelled at for seemingly no reason. “This is the first I’m seeing you all night, and now you’re yelling at me! And on top of that, you promised! You promised to come get me when they started playing crap, and you didn’t! TLC was a gimme, okay, “Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg” is very subjective, very divisive, I know a lot of people like it. They’re wrong, but I still respect them. But “Come on Eileen” is unforgiveable, okay. What a trash song.”

Eddie’s mouth is twisting up something awful. Maybe he just really, really likes “Come on Eileen”. Could be it. Too bad, though. Richie’s not apologizing.

“On top of that, Bethany Kowalski’s spinning me ‘round and ‘round, jostling that awful punch and all those weed cookies around in my stomach, creating like some kinda atom bomb down there, and I can’t keep up—it was one of the worst experiences of my life, Eds, and it’s all thanks to you. So thank you, so much, for that.”

Eddie stares at him. 

“I came to get you. I did,” Eddie says, with a bitter bite. “You looked like you were having a great time. So I left.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

_“Why_ did you come out here, Richie?” he asks again, and he waits for Richie’s answer.

Richie wrinkles up his nose, angry. Angry, and he doesn’t even know why. Just angry. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I probably gave up my only shot at scoring tonight just by stumbling my way out here, lookin’ for you. Now that I’ve found you, and you’re in a real bitchy mood, maybe I should just head back and beg Bethany Kowalski to consider touching my penis tonight.”

_“Fuck you.”_

“Fuck _me? _Fuck you! What the fuck is your fucking problem, huh? I’m sick of this shit! I’m sick of the way you’ve been talking to me for the last however-many-months, I’m sick of the way you won’t tell me what your problem is, and I’m sick of the way we can’t communicate anymore, it’s like I don’t even know you!”

“Well, maybe you don’t!”

“Maybe I don’t! Exactly!”

“Not that you’ve bothered to try to know me! You’re too busy chasing Bethany Kowalski around, trying to get her to go to prom with you—you don’t even like her! You told me!”

“I like her fine!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! She’s sure a hell of a lot more pleasant than you!”

“I bet she is!”

“With _great_ tits!”

“Oh, I’m _happy_ for you!”

“Also—I remembered!”

“What?”

“I remembered. Why I came out here—why the fuck I wanted to talk to you so bad. I remember now. I’m moving.”

In the midst of their shouting match, Eddie has stepped into the glow of the streetlamp. Which is why Richie can see the exact second that his shoulders fall—when the hurt and the pain cross his face with the force of a tidal wave being swept ashore. 

Then, smaller: “What?”

Richie swallows. The guilt creeps in like an unwelcome guest. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m moving. My family, we’re…moving. End of the summer.”

“You…you’re…”

“Portland. Oregon. It’s, uh…it’s my dad’s work. He finally got a new job, and…”

“How long have you known this?”

“Just this week,” Richie says, quickly. It was true. Eddie was the first person he needed to tell. He had to know first. Not just because that was the way things were, and Eddie would hate him otherwise (as if he didn’t already), but because telling him would also be the hardest, and Richie needed to rip it off, like a band-aid.

But a quiet thought says maybe it was wrong, to do it like this.

“W—uh, don’t go.” Eddie says it with a scoff, like the solution is simple. “I mean, that’s stupid. You should finish your senior year. You can, y’know, stay with Stan or something, I bet his parents would—”

“Eddie—”

“You’ll be eighteen this year anyway, and then we can—”

“Eddie, I’m going.”

“Richie, you—don’t—"

“I wanna be on the west coast, anyway. I wanna do comedy. Or, I might head back east and do Second City, but then I wanna go back and try my hand with—”

“Wha—that’s _it?_ What…what about Bill, and Mike, and Stan and me—you’re just gonna fuck off?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I was gonna leave eventually, just…”

“I thought we were gonna go to college together!”

“No, Eds, I’m not going to college!”

“Well, that’s stupid.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d think that.” Richie says it with fondness, though. And a little crack in his voice that he wishes wasn’t there. “’Sides, your mom…your mom’s gonna want you to stay in-state, and I…even if I…Eddie, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t fuckin’ stay here, okay? You wanna know the truth? When my parents told me we were leaving, I was fuckin’ _ecstatic._ Fuckin’ jumpin’ for joy. That’s one less year I have to be here in this shithole of a—”

“Just stop. Just fuckin’ stop. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“What? You really love this town so much? The place that took everything from us and ate Georgie? That’s the hill you’re gonna die on?”

“No Richie, but some of us have to fuckin’ stay here whether we like it or not, and don’t wanna hear about how you can’t wait to leave.”

“Well, fuckin’ excuse me.” Richie shakes his head; can barely look at Eddie. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

_“You thought I’d be—"_

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I did, Eddie, and you know what—”

“You’re a selfish piece of shit.”

Richie locks his jaw. He feels his face twitch.

“The reason you and I can’t communicate anymore? It’s because you have never once in your life had a thought about anybody but yourself. You’re fuckin’ _insensitive_, and oblivious to everyone around you. Me, Stan, Bill, Mike—no one knows how to talk to you Richie, because you’re a selfish prick who’d rather put up a wall or tell a fucking joke than engage with anyone on any level deeper than the surface.”

Richie is shoving his hands into his other coat pocket—the one without the cigarettes—pulling out the cassette tape, and thrusting it into Eddie’s chest.

“Here.”

“Wha—”

“Fucking take it. I’m done. Goodbye.”

He brushes past Eddie and walks down the sidewalk, leaving Eddie and the stupid kissing bridge behind without a single glance back.

When Richie gets back to the school, the dance looks like it’s just winding down. Some people filter out to their cars. Across the lot, his eyes stop on Bill, talking to Stan in front of his car. He doesn’t see Megan, and the conversation doesn’t look…good. There’s a shove, from Stan. Bill looks pretty upset. Richie hears his name mentioned. That’s when some lingering shred of decency tells Richie to stop looking. He turns towards his truck, and is immediately honked at, then blinded by headlights.

“Hey!” It’s…Bethany, somehow. In his truck. In the driver’s seat.

“Hey, yourself, what are you…what are you doing in my car?” Richie goes around the front to talk to her through the driver-side window, just so he doesn’t have to squint.

“When you stumbled off into the night, you left your keys at our table,” she tells him, rather dryly.

“Huh. Shit. Were you planning on driving my truck into a lake or keying up the paint job?”

Bethany thinks. “Probably keying it first, then driving it into a lake.”

“Yeah, hm. The reverse would be pretty difficult, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah. No, actually, I was going out to look for you. Make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Wow. Who died and gave you that job?”

“The group dynamic.” She nods her head rather unsubtly over towards where Bill and Stan are still having their spat. “I think the girls are passed out drunk somewhere. I don’t know where Eddie ran off to. Speaking of running off,” she pauses to give Richie a very pointed look. “You made me look like a real asshole on the dance floor tonight.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not you. I do that to everyone. I’m a selfish prick who’d rather put up a wall or tell a joke rather than engage with someone on any level deeper than the surface.”

Bethany, not knowing what to make of this, just blinks back at him. “Gotcha.”

“Well, the good news is I’m here. I’m not dead. So, do you mind…” Richie gestures for her to get out.

“I don’t think so. I saw the way you were walking earlier.”

“You know, good on you. That’s a commendable choice.”

“Just get in.”

He does what she tells him to.

“Should I wait for Eddie, or is he not—” Bethany starts.

“He’ll get a ride back with his track buddies,” Richie finishes. “Just drive.”

“Well hold on, I don’t know where you live.”

“Where _I—”_

The implications of her stare and the rest of the dots from this conversation all connect at once, and Richie’s stuck sitting there looking back at her like a fuckin’ simple-minded idiot.

“Wait, you still wanna—”

“Richie. Where do you live?”

“Right. Uh. Okay, just, uh, take a right out the parking lot.”

He spends most of the car ride glancing anxiously between Bethany and the road, not knowing what to say. That silence creates an air in the car that Richie grows to hate. He’s in his car, on his way to go get laid. It shouldn’t feel like a fuckin’ death march.

“Hey, uh, about tonight, I’m, uh…real sorry, I didn’t mean anything by…”

“It’s fine,” Bethany says, in a way that makes Richie understand that it’s really not. “For a minute there I couldn’t understand why you were acting so weird. Then Bill told me that a friend of his brought those pot cookies, and I figured it must’ve really fucked you up.”

“Yeah, I…I’m sorry, I just really didn’t feel good—”

“I get it.”

There’s largely silence the rest of the way to his house.

When she pulls into the driveway, the lights are all off—his mom had fallen asleep even before Richie had left that night, and his dad was either with her, or out somewhere Richie didn’t wanna fuckin’ know about.

Sarah had moved out three years ago. Boston College. Richie thought she would write more.

They head up the sidewalk, Richie guiding her along with her hand in his, and he gestures for her to be quiet. He shuts the door softly behind them as they walk in, and tiptoe down the hallway to his room.

The floorboards creak as they walk. 

_“Shit, I’m sorry…”_

_“No, no, don’t worry, it’s an old fuckin’ house, just…here, come on.”_

The creaking keeps going even as he tries to shuffle her quickly into his room, each time louder than the last.

He shuts the door behind them, and ends it.

Bethany tosses her purse down on a chair, like she lives there. She wanders almost aimlessly around the room, just exploring the space. She runs her fingers over dressers, and his bed sheets, and the records he’s got stuffed in a box. Richie hates it. He hates the feeling of someone being here. Even Eddie was rarely here, and never to stay. Just in passing, if Richie had to run in and grab something real quick. And Eddie would always stand in the doorway. Even more, he hates that it’s _her._

“You have a lot of these,” she remarks, pointlessly. She’s still flipping through his records.

“Yep,” he says, moving to sit on his bed, where he thinks this is headed.

She pulls one out; turns back to him. “This one’s gotten some use.”

“Yeah, you know what, don’t, uh…”

But she’s already moving towards the turntable, and has the needle up.

“Look, please don’t—”

_Disintegration_ is playing from the speaker in his bedroom.

Bethany is swaying, with her eyes closed and the ghost of a smile on her face. Then, she’s reaching behind her, for the straps of her dress.

“Please turn it off.”

“Richie, come on, let me have a little fun—”

_“Goddammit,_ turn it off!”

She’s staring at him wide-eyed, but she does it. 

Bethany grips onto the dresser. They look at each other and clearly no longer know what there is to say. She’s frowning, and turning her eyes towards his floor.

“Is it true?” she asks. “What people say about you?”

Richie’s gripping onto his knee, white-knuckled. He feels the bile threatening the back of his throat. “The hell do you mean, _what people say—”_

“I just wanna know if you like…you know, if you like…”

_“I like girls.”_

“Oh. So…then, did you screw Karen Connelly behind the bleachers last year?”

“What?”

“Some of the girls were saying you did. But then Greta said that it wasn’t true, because you were a—sorry. I won’t say it.”

He didn’t _screw Karen Connelly._ He remembers that day. As a matter of fact, she was pulling him aside to ask about Stanley. If he could talk to him for her, maybe get him to ask her out. He told her he didn’t think it was such a good idea. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I did Karen,” he says instead, and doesn’t analyze why.

“What about Beverly Marsh?”

Richie swallows, and already hates himself.

“I’m only asking because…well, everyone knew that Beverly got around, you know? I don’t wanna…y’know…get anything from you.”

“She didn’t have fuckin’ _STD’s,”_ he bites at her, because she well-and-fucking deserves it, if she was one of the girls who bullied Bev. “Yeah, we had sex. One-time thing. We, uh...used a condom.”

And when he says it, it makes him want to cry.

“Okay. If you swear…I trust you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Bethany is dropping her dress.

The sex is longer than he’d like it to be for how miserable it makes him feel, but shorter than he thinks really good sex should last. It’s the definition of disappointment. They don’t talk during—except when something isn’t going right, and Bethany’s nagging at him to adjust. When he does, she doesn’t seem any more satisfied than before.

The bed creaks loud when she reaches down to grab her dress at the end. Richie kicks his feet off the other side and goes to pull on his pants.

“Hey, uh—can I ask you something?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you agree to go to prom with me?”

He doesn’t see her shrug, but more hears it in the tone of her voice. 

“My boyfriend’s older, and we just had a fight. Wasn’t gonna bring it up with him. Bill said you’d be good, you know. For a good time.”

Richie drives her home in silence. He thinks about her words for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


	4. The Tape

** now **

It isn't fair to Eddie that he can’t look at him.

Lots of things aren’t fair. Poverty, hunger, the American judicial system. Death, taxes, and the killer clown from hell that eats kids. Richie supposes in the grand scheme o’ life, it’s not right to lose sleep over _this_ particular thing, although the feeling of that little twerp’s eyes following him everywhere sure as shit doesn’t help much.

The old house on Neibolt street somehow looks more rotted than before, almost as if the rot has spread outward. The dead grass in the yard looks nearly black and the old iron gate is rusted and broken all-to-hell. The Losers approach it in some sort of quiet reverence, or hatred. Beverly places her hand on the gate.

Bill Denbrough already stands in its shadow, kicking at the front door, chest heaving and eyes a little too bugged out. It’s as crazed as Richie’s ever seen him, even compared to the first time they stood here. He straight up doesn’t look well. 

“Bill, you straight up don’t look well,” Richie tells him as he climbs the stairs to help him pry off the wooden boards—after Bill’s made his big hero speech and Richie has unintelligently volunteered to help him.

“Yeah, you l-l-look like shit too, Richie.”

Richie _harrumphs_, and pries off another plank. 

“W-w-w-what’s your excuse?” Bill prods.

“I think I just remembered that I’m pissed at you,” Richie grumbles, and they break down the door.

** then **

The acoustics of New Order fill Bill Denbrough’s bedroom from wall to wall on a Friday afternoon. Richie and Bill lay on the floor—Bill with his legs kicked up on his bed, Richie with his legs on Bill’s TV stand. A half-eaten jar of cheese puffs sits between them. A few crushed beer cans—three, or four, or maybe five or six—decorate the floor.

“Has S-Stan s-s-said anything to you r-recently?” Bill asks in a whiny, tired sort of tone.

“Yuh-huh. Yesterday, he said, ‘_Hey, Richie’_, and the day before that he said, _‘Jump in a lake, Richie’.”_

“I-I mean, a-a-about m-m-me.”

“Billy boy, you’re stuttering more than usual, you comin’ down with something?”

Bill throws a cheese puff at him. “Richie, c-c’mon, h-h-help me out, here.”

“No, William, Stanley has not said anything to me about you in recent memory. That do it for ya?”

Bill stands up; starts kicking a beer can towards the trash bin inch-by-inch like it’s a soccer ball—but in a real sad, unenthused way.

“He’s just…” he starts. “He’s been acting r-r-really weird, l-lately.”

“Yeah? Weird how?” Richie agreed that sometimes Stan acted like he was from a different planet, but that that was pretty par-for-the-course as far as Stan was concerned.

“Well, weird l-like…” Bill twists his lips. “Like at the p-p-prom last S-Saturday. He, uh…we had a f-fight.”

“M-hmm. Everyone saw. And heard.”

“It was just, uh…really w-w-weird.” Bill kicks the can into the trash, then drops his butt back onto his bed in an unceremonious _plop._

Richie sits up on the floor. “Okay, Billiam, you gotta give me more than that.”

“Well, he, uh…h-he mostly yelled at me ab-b-bout you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, he, uh…I f-f-felt real bad, R-Richie, he was talkin’ about h-h-how I wasn’t lookin’ out f-for you, and…honestly, I-I didn’t really c-c-catch all of it, I was kinda drunk, b-b-but the pot cookies came up, a-a-and how wasted you got, a-and Bethany K-Kowalski…”

“Oh. Well, Bill, you don’t gotta—”

“…a-and Megan! Megan came up somehow, a-a-and I-I don’t…I don’t know what his p-p-problem is with Megan, but…”

“Megan’s a lovely woman, I’m sure Stanley was just bein’ a hothead.”

“A-a-anyway, he called me a dickhead…h-h-he called me a dickhead a _lot_, I r-remember that. And that my f-f-friends were all dicks, and I hang out with sh-shitty people, and that I-I-I wasn’t the same anymore.”

Richie sighs, and stands. “Look, Bill, Stanley’s—”

“Am I a dickhead, Richie?” Bill looks up at him—and he looks very sad.

Richie frowns. “Aw, come…c’mon, Bill, no, you…”

“W-w-why are you s-saying it like that?”

“Saying it like what, what do you want me to—”

“L-l-like you’re not sure!”

“Bill, Jesus, you’re not a dickhead!”

Bill’s face falls. He shakes his head, and doesn’t look at Richie.

“Look, you’re…you’re not a dickhead, Bill, you’re a great guy.” Richie shuffles his feet. “But I…I got something I gotta ask ya, and don’t take this the wrong way or nothin’, I just…it’s eatin’ me up inside, and I…”

“G-g-go ahead.”

“Have you been telling people I screwed Karen Connelly?”

Bill sits there with his mouth hanging open a little, narrowing his eyes a little bit—like his brain hasn’t fully caught up to what Richie just asked him.

“’Cause I’ve been wrackin’ my brain,” Richie goes on, “trying to figure out how that shit’s been going around, and I gotta tell you Bill, I haven’t come up with jack-dick. And I know it sure as hell wasn’t Karen that started it, ‘cause Lord knows she’s still sweet on Stanley—”

Richie stops there, because Bill’s face is buried in his hands.

“Oh, God, Richie, I’m so sorry.”

Richie’s limbs start to feel like jelly—his whole body feeling a little bit weightless, like he’s on the moon. “Wh—what, you…you _did?_ You’ve been spreadin’ it around that I…”

“R-R-Richie, c’mon, I…I did it for you!”

“You did it for _me?”_

“Yeah! I th-th-thought you’d be happy about it, havin’ a reputation like that, th-th-the way you’re always talkin’!”

_“The way I_—Bill, I had to hear this from Bethany on prom night! Bethany—who I’m told _you_ said should go to prom with me for a fuckin’ _good time_—woman practically blindsided me with it—you couldn’t have told me first?”

“I’m sorry, it s-s-slipped my mind, Richie, I—”

“Oh, it _slipped your mind?_ Fuckin’ Jesus Christ, Bill! What the hell?”

“It was wrong. It was wr-wr-wrong and I’m sorry, alright? I-I-I-I’ll make it up to you, I’ll—”

“You ever think about _her?_ How Karen probably feels? She didn’t fuckin’ ask for this! Jesus Christ, and I didn’t know all this time…”

“God, Richie, I’m so…”

Richie swallows and his throat feels dry. “E-Eds, Eddie. Eddie, does Eddie know—did Eddie hear about this?”

“Probably, I don’t know, Richie, I’m sorry,” Bill is pleading with every word, but Richie hasn’t reached that point of feeling sorry for him yet.

“Bill, _think._ I need you to _think_ and tell me if this has gotten back to Eddie or not.”

“I…He…Y-yeah, I think…I think m-maybe he m-m-mentioned something ‘bout it o-once.”

“God, fucking…” He’s pacing back and forth, trying to center himself on the feeling of the carpet under his feet.

“Honestly Richie, I’m real sorry, I just…I don’t get w-w-why you’re this mad about it, I-I thought I-I’d be helping you out! Honest!”

Richie’s as close to fuming as he’s ever been. He even does that thing with his pointer finger that moms do when they want you to know they’re _real_ pissed. 

“Bill, don’t you _ever_ pull that shit again. I swear to God, I don’t know what kinda person you think I am, but I’ll tell ya for free, it’s _not _someone who’d be fuckin’ _happy_ about some shit like this.”

“So you told Bethany it wasn’t true then, right?”

“What?” Richie croaks immediately, and it’s embarrassing.

“Y-y-you told Bethany that it wasn’t true, that you and Karen never had sex?”

“We—I—no. No, I didn’t tell her that, what the fuck was I supposed to say? I was in fuckin’ shock, Bill,” (A lie) “I was trying to score with Bethany,” (A worse lie) “and here she thought I was a fuckin’ Don Juan or something, making it with Karen Connelly behind the bleachers—what the fuck did you want me to do? I…I didn’t have a choice.” (An even worse lie, because Richie could almost believe it) “Shit, Bill.” (He even omits the Bev thing, because nothing he’s done in his life had ever made him feel so ashamed.)

Maybe Bill had planned on being real smug, getting Richie to admit to a thing like that. But somehow, once Richie was done talking, Bill was back with his head in his hands. His shoulders shaking. Crying.

“Bill, come on. You successfully made me look like an asshole. No need for that shit.”

“Y-y-you’re an asshole, and I’m worse. I’m a fuckin’ dickhead.”

Richie sits down on the bed. He places a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“A dickhead w-w-with a bunch of shitty friends, and I don’t look after the only good ones I got, a-a-and instead I do bullshit stuff like t-tellin’ people you did Karen Connelly. I s-said I was doin’ it for you, but I did it ‘cause I’m an asshole.”

“Aw, no, Bill, I…I know why you did it.”

Bill sniffles. “Y-you do?”

Richie did.

But maybe they didn’t have to say it. Maybe they could both know it wordlessly, and that would be good enough.

“You’re a good friend, Bill,” Richie says. “I wish you hadn’t done that, but you’re a good friend. Don’t ever let me tell you any different.”

“W-w-what about Stan?”

“Actually, Stan’s allowed to tell you whatever he wants. Sorry, nothing I can do about that.”

Bill laughs. 

Richie likes that he can make his friends laugh.

Bill ends up moving out in June, before Richie. Bill tells him, with no lack of sadness in his voice, that it was a long time coming. Said that his folks were real sick in the head after Georgie’s death and never got better. And that even Bill was pushing them to get out of Derry, which Richie understood.

Everybody’s pretty miserable that summer, and no one’s talking to each other. He and Bill talk pretty okay after their fight. And sometimes he and Stan talk, but even that’s changed. Stan’s still real sore about Bill, and Bill’s moving only seems to make it worse. Richie can tell in Mike’s eyes whenever he sees him that the poor kid just wants everyone to be friends again—or at least be civil. Mike hardly gets to see them much as it is, citing lots of work up at the farm. When he does, it’s never all five, together, like it had been at Mike’s prom. Richie has not spoken to Eddie since prom night.

(The last time they are all together for another twenty-seven years is the day Bill leaves. It rains that day.)

Megan Thomas does not come to see Bill off. Richie doesn’t know why, and doesn’t ask. Could be they said their goodbyes in private, or could be they weren’t together anymore and Bill hadn’t told him. Richie liked Megan well enough, but he supposed it didn’t really matter anymore.

None of Bill’s hockey friends come either. Or the guys from football. Or Bethany Kowalski, who Richie is very glad not to see.

It ends up being just the four of them, helping Bill and his folks move the last of their boxes into the van, and standing in their sad little line under the porch roof, waiting to be hugged one final time.

All four of them are shivering in the cold, hair and t-shirts dripping wet. Richie feels the nagging sensation of eyes on him and turns his head up the line to see Eddie looking back with a blank, indecipherable look, water falling in droplets from the droopy hair in his face. After a beat, Eddie looks away. Richie doesn’t want to, but does the same.

Richie watches Bill as he slams the trunk shut and looks back over their way. He’s stricken with the fact that he doesn’t want Bill to go, and that fact hits him very hard, like a bag of bricks. Bill was his first friend. Ever. They learned to count and crawl and stand up and fall over together. Richie was there when Georgie died. Bill was there when Richie’s dad lost his job.

Richie wonders if this is the same bag of bricks that hit Eddie, when Richie told him that night on the kissing bridge, under the streetlamp.

It makes him very sad.

Bill leans in to hug him—a big, full hug—and Richie panics. His breathing starts to go all haywire and he’s sniffling before he knows it, using the hand not holding onto Bill’s t-shirt to wipe his eyes by pinching them together. He didn’t cry for Bev. Or for Ben. He cries for Bill.

“R-Richie, I love you, buddy,” Bill says into his shoulder, voice heavy.

Richie takes a deep, shuddery breath. “Go knock ‘em dead, you hear?”

Bill steps back and pats Richie’s shoulder, firm. “I’ll write.”

Richie smiles at him. Bill does the same. Neither smiles reach their eyes.

“No, you won’t,” Richie reminds him. And Bill takes a breath, because he knows that it’s true.

Bill finishes his hugs down the line. As soon as he turns towards his car, Richie is bolting in the other direction, wiping his eyes furiously, trying to stop the onslaught of tears as he walks all the way back to his house.

(This, consequently, is the moment adult Richie remembers what it was that Bev had whispered into his ear on that day in ’89 when she had gotten on that train and never looked back. 

_“Fleetwood Mac_, Rumours,” she had told him with a smile, like a secret, as she slipped the cassette tape into his open hand. Then she had gripped his hand, hard, and said, _“I hope you can tell them one day, Richie,”_ and she left.

_Rumours_ would become Richie’s favorite album of all time. As for the second thing, if she ever asked, Richie would tell her he had been working up to it for twenty-seven years.)

** now **

She knew.

Not just in the _sort of-_way that Bill had known—the presumptive way that had made him tell everyone Richie had had sex with Karen Connelly, thinking he had done him some sort of favor—something that was likely based more on the things Bill had heard his friends say about Richie than any actual detective work on Bill’s part.

Bev knew this about Richie without him having to tell her, after only a few months of friendship and some shared music and cigarettes.

He’s not sure he likes it—this new development. Back then, Bev was gone. Whatever it was she knew, she took with her, preserved entirely in Richie’s memories of her and nothing else. But now, Bev’s here, in the flesh. Standing about two feet away from Eddie.

He _knows_ he doesn’t like it. It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in his life, and he’s about two heartbeats away from a panic attack, frankly. Except now’s not a really good time, since they’re standing in the Neibolt house living room looking for a fuckin’ clown.

It was twenty-seven years ago, Richie reminds himself. Shit, maybe she forgot! Hell, if Bevvie had told him she was into chicks back in ‘89, it was probably one of those little details that he wouldn’t get back for another few days, at least. Also—he would fork out _thousands_ of dollars to be the one that had to tell Ben and Bill. Jesus Christ, the looks on those faces.

Alright, that did it. He’s okay now.

Well, mostly, anyway. As much as can be expected, with goo oozing down the Neibolt staircase five feet from his face.

“Well. I just _love_ what he’s done with the place.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev grumbles.

** then **

_“She's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky,”_

The Tozier parents are gone for the weekend. Richie is allowed to play his music as loud as he wants—as long as it doesn’t bug the hell outta Sarah too much.

It’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is out, the wind’s blowing through his window. School’s almost out. Summer will last for three long, wonderful months. Then, he’ll be in middle school. Richie Tozier is on top of the world.

_“Now and then when I see her face, she takes me away to that special place, and if I'd stare too long, I'd probably break down and cry,”_

“Hey, Rich! Richie!”

_“Woah, oh, oh, sweet child o’mine!”_

“Richie, hey—”

He is on top of the world until Eddie Kaspbrak surprises him in his doorway, while Richie is jumping on his bed in his tighty-whities, using a hairbrush as a microphone and belting out some Guns N’ Roses.

“E-Eddie! _Jesus Christ!”_ Richie is scrambling off the bed in a second, searching frantically for his jeans and t-shirt. “Y’know, it’s polite to knock first, and ask a lady if she’s decent.”

_“Woah, oh, oh, oh, sweet love of mine,”_ the speaker echoes, and Richie nearly trips over himself unplugging the stupid thing. 

Eddie has his arms crossed, and a horribly amused look on his face that would actually be delightful if it weren’t being supplied by Richie’s utter embarrassment. 

“Good thing you’re not a lady.” Eddie says with laughter laced in his voice, which makes Richie decide very quickly that maybe the whole thing was okay after all. “Sarah let me in. She said you weren’t…busy…but I guess that’s not true.”

As if on sitcom-esque cue, Sarah passes by Richie’s bedroom door, takes one peek in at Richie still struggling to pull his pants on, and giggles up a storm.

“’S not funny, Sarah!” Richie shouts after her. “Uh, no. No, I’m not busy,” he tells Eddie, as casually as possible while throwing on his shirt. “What’s up?”

Eddie’s finger finds the button on the back of one of Richie’s many action figures sitting on the dresser to his right: _“E.T. phone home.”_

“I was just, uh, comin’ over to see if you wanted to hang out,” Eddie shrugs. “But I understand if you’d much rather stay and put on a concert for E.T. and, uh…Doc Brown, here.”

_“Great Scott!”_

_“Great Scott!”_

_“Great—"_

“Hey, stop that.” Richie smacks Eddie’s hand away from Doc Brown’s back. But maybe that’s a mistake, because then Eddie is brushing past him and making his way over to sit on Richie’s bed, bouncing on it idly.

Richie doesn’t care for that much.

“Yeah, sure, fine, I’ll hang out. Let’s go.” Richie’s got one shoe on and his toes already in the other.

“Well, wait. Hold on.”

“First you wanna go, now you wanna hold on? Jeez, Eddie, you’re hot, you’re cold—”

“Well, I’ve never been in your room before.”

Richie looks at him blankly. “Aaand now you have. Great. Good for you. Let’s go.”

“Something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing’s wrong. Just, uh…there’s nothing to do in here, Eds. Fun stuff’s outside. C’mon, we’ll stop by the diner and grab some grub.”

“Don’t call me that. And I don’t get it. We hang out in my room all the time.”

“Sure, but…” Richie bites his lip. “Come on, it’s a beautiful day outside! Don’t you wanna get out? Go out on the town! Carpe diem, all that crap.”

“Yeah, I just—”

“Or would you rather I strip down to my underwear again and sing to you all afternoon? Is that it? I know I have a lovely voice.”

Eddie’s face gets _real_ red then, like he’s mad. Richie’s already bracing himself for the irritated clap-back. Instead, it’s:

“Gah,_ beep beep_, Richie!”

Richie blinks.

“…I’m sorry?”

“What?”

“Did you just…honk at me? Like a car?”

“I…yeah! Maybe! Why?”

“It’s…” Richie frowns. “…an odd choice, I guess.”

“Well…” Eddie’s got one hell of a weird look on his face. Richie doesn’t know what any of it means. “Fuck you!”

Eddie’s standing and walking towards the doorway. He turns back to Richie. “Changed my mind. Let’s go. Now.” Then he’s walking out of sight, heading for the front door.

(It just sort of catches on after that.)

** now **

Richie’s seen _The Thing._ It went a little something like this.

_“Richie! Eddie!”_

_“Bill? Richie, where are—”_

Bill’s bashing his shoulder against the door trying to force it open. Eddie’s close behind Richie, breathing all heavy. 

The wood all around them is creaking—louder than before, like the whole house was alive. Then the refrigerator starts rattling.

“Richie, what the _fuck?”_

He’s shielding Eddie from the evil vibrating fridge with his whole body. Bill’s cursing up a storm still trying to get that door open, to no avail. 

“Bill, buddy, it’s not happening—we got a situation on our—”

“Yeah,_ fuck_, Richie! I know!”

The fridge stops its rattling all at once. The sudden quiet causes Bill to pause his efforts at the door for a minute to stare at the fridge the way he and Eddie were doing. Eddie, behind him, inches closer.

The refrigerator door slams open. Richie can’t tell what it is at first—it just looks like a dark, mangled bunch of flesh. 

The first sharp limb pokes its way outside of the fridge, gripping onto the edge and starting—inch-by-inch—to pull itself out. It straightens itself out; stands itself up on all eight of its legs, which, of course, makes the human head in the middle really stand out.

Richie gulps, and feels the cold sweat take over his entire body.

“It…it’s Stan.”

** then **

(Bev was not the only person who knew.)

Richie dips a limp french fry into the red puddle of ketchup on his plate, then shoves it in his mouth. Eddie, across from him, makes a face.

“Bill, you’re my friend,” Richie starts, still chewing his fry. “But I may have to disown you if you keep saying that shit.”

“F-F-Fincher had a vision, Rich!” Bill, sitting by the window next to Eddie, gives an impassioned speech using his hands while also holding a smoking cigarette between his fingers. “Th-the movie’s beautiful, the story’s great—i-it’s the fuckin’ studio execs couldn’t settle their d-d-dick measuring contest.”

Stan, sitting next to Richie in their booth looks…at least like he’s trying to hang onto the thread of the conversation. Eddie, wholly disinterested, is gulping down his milkshake loudly through a straw.

“You mean kinda like the one happening right now?” Eddie asks flatly, before taking another loud sip.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Eds,” Richie starts. “You’re just sore ‘cause that movie had you shittin’ your pants,”

“Did not.”

“Did _too_. You sat _next_ to me, dingus. Thought my arm was gonna fall off, the way you were grippin’ it.”

_“Shut up.”_

“You need me to walk you home? Make sure no facehuggers leap outta the bushes and tackle you? Lay eggs in your face that eat at you from the inside?”

“Eat _me_, Tozier.” Stan snaps at him.

“C’mon, R-Richie, leave him alone.”

Their waitress comes by to pick up their dirty plates. She eyes Bill skeptically.

“Hey, put it out. I know you’re not old enough to be smokin’ those.”

Bill coughs; straightens his back. “I-I-I’m eighteen, ma’am.”

Richie can’t help the snicker. Stan smacks his arm.

_Sandy—_as Richie can tell by her nametag—puts a sassy-looking hand on her hip.

“I know your mother, Bill Denbrough. You can either put it out, or I can call and ask her your birthday.”

Bill puts it out.

“It’s a good movie, Richie,” he says as he smushes the cigarette in the ashtray.

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Bill,” Richie says back, with fake hurt in his voice.

The bell on the door behind them dings and the light breeze that comes from outside feels pretty good. 

Richie’s not paying it any mind—he’s preoccupied, starting to leech off of Stan’s fries now, much to his friend’s irritation. But out of his periphery, he sees Bill’s jaw grow tight, and sees him shut his eyes with a stiff sigh.

“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” comes the voice, which Richie still hasn’t registered yet. The footsteps get closer. “Bill ‘The Stutter’ Denbrough and his band of losers. I haven’t seen you geeks since you got my cousin locked up in a nut house.”

Bowers’ cousin hasn’t rounded the corner of the booth yet, so he can’t see Richie. Richie is frozen in place—not breathing, his back glued to the seat, as if the guy’s vision is somehow motion-activated.

“The f-f-fuck’s wrong with you, Connor? Henry stuck a knife in your u-uncle’s throat and w-watched him bleed out.”

“Yeah, like a fuckin’ _pig,”_ one of Connor’s friends laughs like a fuckin’ moron.

“Shows what shit you know,” Connor bites. “Asshole beat on Henry his whole life. Fuckin’ pig prick had it comin’. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Bill narrows his eyes. “S-sure. Fuckin’ whatever. Tell Henry to s-s-send me a postcard.”

“Wow,” Connor starts. “That was almost _s-s-s-smooth,_ Billy boy. Keep working on those _s’s_. You’ll get ‘em one of these days.”

Stan’s looking back with daggers in his eyes. Richie’s sure he nearly says something. But that’s before he takes a brief glance down at Richie. He must see Richie’s silent, panicked plea. To _not_ bring attention to their side of the booth yet. 

Stan keeps his mouth shut, against probably all of his instincts.

“I’m sure his dad was a fuckin’ dick,” Eddie starts, and Richie’s heart finds his throat. _“No. No no no no no,”_ Richie tries to tell him desperately with a glare. _“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”_

“But we didn’t kill him,” Eddie keeps going, like a dumbass. “Henry did. Now he’s gone. Good fucking riddance. For two years, there was a little peace and quiet, and I didn’t have to spend my time getting harassed by white trash missing half a chromosome.”

“Your boyfriend’s got a fuckin’ mouth on him, Bill,” Connor bites.

“Where does Eddie Kaspbrak get off callin’ someone white trash?” another of Connor’s friends asks. “His mom’s ass has got its own fuckin’ _zip code_, and his dad ran off to get a pack of cigs when he was a baby and never came _back.”_

“My dad’s _dead_, you fucking ignoramus.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. Probably killed himself, rather than live another day sleepin’ in the same bed as your fuckin’ fat-ass _mom.”_

That ends up being the line. Eddie’s up and shoving Connor’s friend back with surprising force—his back hits the diner stool behind him, which spins out from under him and causes him to fall and hit his head against the counter. Connor’s shoving Eddie, which puts him on the ground too, and then there’s no choice. Richie’s already stood up, and his right hook meets Connor’s nose before Stan can stop him.

Connor hooks him back. Faster than Richie had anticipated. The punch shatters his glasses.

Then the strong, firm hand of one of the goons is pushing back on his chest, shoving him back down into his seat.

Bill gets out and helps Eddie up, who doesn’t look all that worse for wear.

Connor, with a little bit of blood dripping from his nose, is looking down at him with an awful gleam in his eye.

“No fuckin’ way,” he says. “And you’re friends with the queer from the arcade.”

_“Alright, that’s it!”_ Sandy’s yelling from behind the counter. “All of you! Out! You better light a fire under your ass, Bowers, ‘cause I’m calling the cops in two minutes if I still see your little blonde head on this street. I’m sure they’ll be real happy to see you again.”

Richie’s already up. Already at the door, pushing it open with such force that the bell gets knocked off the door frame and falls on the ground.

He picks his bike up off the ground outside and starts pedaling. He’s already down the street and turning the corner when he hears the faint sounds of his friends shouting after him.

He’s throwing open the front gate and slamming it behind him, tossing his bike on the lawn and narrowly missing a flower bed. He slams the front door closed, too.

“Richard Tozier, I’ve told you a hundred times not to come in this house like—" his mom is saying from the couch, but the slam of his bedroom door cuts her off. He doesn’t even lock it behind him, because he knows she won’t bother to get up and come nag at him.

Richie finds the floor. Crawls up next to his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. He sobs.

(There’s no point in sugar-coating it. It’s a hard thing to admit. An even harder thing to remember.)

It must be ten, fifteen minutes. He loses his sense of time. All he knows is the fucking hellscape of that arcade, shrinking and shrinking and crushing him until he suffocates and dies. _Faggot_ and _queer_ and Connor’s face and Eddie’s face and Henry Bowers’ face. The clown and the secret, and the splinters in his thumb.

“Richie,” is gentle, and it comes from the door. Richie doesn’t answer. But he blinks, and sniffles, brought back and grounded in the present for the briefest of moments.

Stan doesn’t wait for permission. He walks around his bed anyway, and sits right down next to him. 

The first thing he does is hold out a bag of peas wrapped in a towel.

“Here,” he says. “Pulled it from your freezer.”

Richie frowns, but tentatively reaches out and grabs it from him.

“Might wanna take those glasses off first,” Stan says. “I hate to break it to you, Rich, but they’re pretty shot.”

Richie does take them off—tries to look at them as best he can. “Shit. You think Mike could fix these? He’s good at that shit, right?”

Stan looks unsure. “I dunno, Rich.”

“Can’t afford new ones. My dad’ll tan my fuckin’ hide if he finds these.”

“Hey,” Stan says, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We gotta. Otherwise, I’ll be walking your blind ass to school every day, and I don’t have time for that shit.”

Richie tries to laugh, but thinks the way it comes out probably sounds pretty painful. He holds the bag of peas to his face, and feels just a little better.

“How’s Eddie?” he manages.

“He’s fine,” Stan says, eyes finding Richie’s and not letting go. “He’s worried about you. It’s all very melodramatic.”

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For not bringing him here.”

Stan nods. “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Stan gives him a break—drops his intense stare and starts looking at the floor. They allow themselves to sit in the silence, and let the dim room with the closed blinds and the sound of the whirring air conditioner speak for them. 

Richie doesn’t even notice the thing building inside him. Or doesn’t care. Either way, it speaks to something really lovely about Stan. Something Richie could never name, or figure out. Stan was so different that way. 

“You don’t gotta worry about your parents, Rich,” Stan starts talking. “You know, Sandy didn’t really call the cops. I stayed behind; she knows Connor—”

“Stan, I like boys.”

Richie says it fast. Possibly so he can’t stop himself mid-sentence and change his mind. Like ripping off one real big bitch of a band-aid.

Maybe it’s the reckless, devil-may-care attitude this afternoon has taken on, but Richie has to look at him when he says it. He needs to see if Stanley’s got some horrified look on his face, or if he races out of the room, or launches himself out the window. He’s gotta know how bad he’s fucked everything up. It’s his own sick sense of masochism, maybe.

Or maybe it’s Bev’s voice in his head. Or maybe it’s the small but resolute feeling that Stan wouldn’t do any of that. 

Stan’s face really hasn’t changed. He’s looking at Richie just like he was looking at him before. Measured. Sincere. Unfazed.

Stan nods.

“Okay,” Stan says, thick and honest, like he could really mean it. “Okay. Yeah. You like boys.”

** now **

_“Georgie’s dead, Stan’s dead—do you w-w-want Richie too? Huh?! Do you want Richie too?!”_

_“No, Bill, no. No, I…”_

Richie’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

_“Gah,_ my fuckin’ head…”

Bevvie is supporting his neck, folding her jacket and tucking it behind him so he’s not laying against the hard-ass cement.

_“Shh,_ Rich honey, don’t get up,” she tells him.

“Please don’t be mad, Bill,” he hears Eddie whimper from somewhere in the corner. “I was just scared.”

From what Richie can gather from where he’s laid out flat on the ground, it’s the combination of Mike’s hand on Bill’s shoulder and something in the tone of Eddie’s voice that gets Bill to back down. But he’s pretty wired up. Richie sorta barely remembers what happened. He remembers Stan’s thirteen-year-old head on a fuckin’ facehugger. That part’ll be seared onto the back of his eyelids until he’s dead and in the ground. The rest’s pretty shaky. 

“You alright, Richie? You blacked out on us there,” Ben’s asking him from near his feet.

“Did that thing lay eggs in my mouth?” is the first thing Richie can bring himself to worry about.

“Not that I saw,” Mike says with a shrug. Richie has regained enough consciousness to take offense to this. He sits up.

“Hey asshole, I saved your life not but like two hours ago, and you don’t care if I got some fuckin’ eggs implanted in my stomach?”

“Well, Richie, honey, there’s not much he can do about it now, is there?” Bev quips. She takes her jacket back.

“You’re all against me. I hate all of you.”

But they’re already dusting themselves off and talking amongst themselves. Bill’s talking about making the push to the basement and is met with general agreement. Richie stands up and straightens out his jacket. Stan’s spider corpse is laying on the floor, with a knife lodged in its forehead.

Richie looks towards the corner. He blinks, staring at Eddie, who’s staring back at him with big eyes full of fear. Lip trembling. For absolutely not the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Eddie looks almost thirteen again.

_“Eddie—”_ Richie breathes, and almost starts to apologize. _Apologize—to_ Eddie, on account of getting fuckin’ attacked by a giant spider and causing _him_ distress.

_“Richie,”_ Eddie is saying before Richie can. “Richie, oh God, I’m…you don’t…are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Eds, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie takes a couple steps closer. He’s looking Richie up and down, like he’s not sure Richie isn’t lying just to make him feel better. (He is.) “Richie, I’m so sorry. I…I wanted to, I wanted to, I just…I..I couldn’t, I…” he swallows; catches his breath.

“Facehugger,” Eddie says, quieter.

“Yeah,” Richie nods. “Facehugger.”

(He can almost feel Stanley rolling his eyes, and mumbling something about melodrama.)

** then **

Richie got pissed at Eddie, but never mad. He could never get mad.

Mainly because the shit that got Richie really heated was never _really_ Eddie’s fault. Like when Eddie’s mom chewed Richie out, or grounded Eddie for something real stupid. Eddie couldn’t help it. Sometimes Richie got mad at Bill, and knew that he should probably be mad at Eddie too by association (because Eddie almost always took Bill’s side. Stan would joke that if Richie and Bill got divorced, Bill would get full custody.), he never really was. Eddie was too cute to be mad at.

And all the small shit—Eddie pushing his buttons, irritating the hell outta him, making him yell ‘til he was blue in the face—that was just for fun. Neither of them really meant any of it. Richie knew that. 

If Richie had to mark the point in time when Eddie started not acting quite like_ Eddie_ anymore, he would say maybe a year and a half, two years after the summer of ’89. Around when middle school turned into high school, and Eddie turned fifteen. Richie could never figure out _what_ it was. A phase, or…something. He always had this _look_ in his eyes. And sometimes…or, a lot of the times, when Richie looked at him (and sometimes when Eddie didn’t even notice he was looking), he thought about things that he shouldn’t fucking think about. Things he hadn’t thought about since he was twelve or thirteen and had only just discovered he could put his hand on his dick and it would feel good. Since then, he’d learned how to keep that shit in _check_. Or at least think about Phoebe Cates when he did it. Now that that shit was resurfacing just because Eddie put gel in his hair and wore nice-fitting jeans (and still, sometimes, those tiny red shorts), it was more than a little fucking infuriating. But, again, not really Eddie’s fault.

But if Richie had to mark the exact moment, down to the hour, that their friendship had started to take a turn for the worse, it would be September 3rd, 1992. Bill Denbrough’s house, 3pm. 

Bill had had another one of his bright fuckin’ ideas—one of those which Richie only agreed to because booze was involved. Bill had a new girlfriend whose name Richie did not know (it was getting hard to keep track, really), and apparently she had a couple of friends on the debate team who’d be willing to hang out for what Bill was calling a _“drunken get-together”_. It was his way of convincing everyone that it wasn’t a party, because Stan and Eddie were both publicly averse to parties, while Richie was only _privately_ averse to them. Bill (not Stan or Eddie or anyone else) knew this, because he and Richie had gone to a party at Megan Thomas’ place in June, and had run into Connor Bowers and his asshole brigade again. There was a lot of shouting. Bill had thrown a few decent punches, and Richie only got called a small handful of homophobic slurs. They left before things got really bad, and Richie had narrowly avoided being outed in front of the entire school.

It was not, as Bill had assured him it would be, a _fun time._

Neither is this, really. Except at least there’s a lot fewer people here, and none of them are related to Henry Bowers. 

“Okay Bill, truth or dare?” Bill’s girlfriend Catherine—or, shit, is it Carolyn—is asking. She’s batting her eyelashes at Bill in a way that makes her look like she’s got an eye infection.

“Mm…dare,” he says, looking down at her with a tipsy smile.

“I dare you to kiss me,” she says, and Richie’s looking around the living room for Bill’s dad’s gun, to blow his brains out.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bill says, all without even stuttering, and leans down to start sucking face with Carolyn/Catherine.

Stan excuses himself, and says he has to pee. 

But it’s not just him. A lot of the debate team girls are starting to get sick of it too—some of them leaving for the kitchen to grab more beer or snacks, and Ben’s got his head in his hands just staring into space. The only one who looks somewhat okay is Mike, who, Richie knows, is only trying to make the best of things.

Eddie—God bless him—is the only one with balls enough to say what’s on everyone else’s mind. 

“Bill, no offense, but if I wanted to watch you and your girlfriend swap spit for three hours, I’d swing by the bleachers after school. If we’re gonna play truth or dare, can we please go, like, ten minutes without the subject of every dare being new ways you can stick your tongue down each other’s throat?”

They’re both pulling away now, wiping at their mouths and mumbling their apologies. They can’t even look at Eddie directly—like he’s some cop that just caught them hooking up in the backseat of Bill’s car on top of Point Lookout. Richie can’t help the horribly amused smile that’s appeared on his face.

One of the debate team girls that stayed in the living room perks up. “Oh, are Bill and Caty done mauling each other now? Is it my turn?” _Caty._ Sure, yeah. That was it.

Caty’s friend sits down cross-legged next to Mike, with her beer in-hand. Her eyes scan the circle.

_“Ben,”_ she decides. “It is Ben, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…” Ben answers, seemingly confused that he is physically observable.

“Truth or dare?” Caty’s friend asks him.

Ben shrugs. “Truth.”

Caty’s friend cocks her head. “Did you ever make it with Beverly Marsh?”

Bill—no joke—spits out his drink.

“What? No, of course not.” Ben says, sputtering.

“Wait, w-w-why would you ask him that?” Bill’s asking, his whole body visibly tense.

The girl shrugs. “I just heard a rumor, is all.”

Richie’s looking between Caty’s confused pout, and the way Bill’s staring at Ben, and the way Ben is pointedly not staring back at Bill, and begs a merciful God to just let it end.

Mike, being the generally great guy that he is, steps in and takes his turn immediately.

“Richie!” He says a bit louder than he needs to, pulling attention away from the horribly uncomfortable_ ten seconds ago_. “Truth or dare?”

Richie scoffs. “What, am I a pussy? Dare.”

“Uhh…thirty-second keg stand!”

And that’s all it takes to breathe life back into the party again. Within five minutes, Richie’s chugging from the keg upside-down with the entire female debate team cheering him on. It’s the little things in life, you know?

When it’s over, and Richie’s in the kitchen cleaning off his shirt and face with the faucet, he looks over his shoulder to see Eddie emerge from the hallway. Eddie leans against the door frame, arms folded.

“You missed me, bud. I did ten seconds better than Mike’s dare.”

“Did you.” It’s not a question. It’s a dry, unamused statement.

“Where’s Stan? You check on him?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He went home.”

Richie blinks at Eddie, confused by his tone and his stance and…all of it. He’s about to ask him why, when Bill’s calling both of them back to the living room for more truth or dare.

It’s some other chick’s turn when they get back—the circle’s gotten larger now that the party’s gotten a little more exciting, all thanks to Richie. He’s so smug about the whole thing that he pretty much forgets that Eddie might be pissed at him.

“Richie,” the debate team girl is looking at him, and he’s realizing he may have just become the star of the evening. “Truth or dare?”

“Oh, come on, he can’t do two in a row!” Caty is complaining.

The girl shrugs. “Show me the rule, Caty. Richie, come on, truth or dare?”

“You already know my answer, sweetheart.” Richie winks. “Hit me.”

“I dare you…” she bites her lip coyly. “To make out with Hannah.”

The girl sitting next to Bill looks like she might kill someone. _“Jess_, what the _fuck?”_

“I’m assuming that’s Hannah.” Richie points. 

Jess nods, smiling. “The very one.”

Richie crawls across the circle on hands and knees. He reaches Hannah, and blows the fallen strand of hair out of his eye.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she responds with a blush. She’s cute. Blonde with freckles and a toned little gymnast’s body. Not really his type, but nobody’s perfect.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he tells her. “That okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay,” she says, still blushing. But she’s smiling, so he takes that as a sign to continue.

He brushes hair behind her ear and moves his hand down to cup her neck as he pulls her in to kiss her. It’s nice. A little hesitant at first, which Richie decides he probably needs to change pretty fast as the dare was to _make out_ with her and not kiss with their mouths closed. Turns out, she’s pretty amenable to Richie taking the lead. On instinct, (and he doesn’t think about where the instinct comes from) he licks the seam of her mouth to coax it open, and it’s all pretty much smooth sailing from there. There are a few catcalls and whistles, and Richie thinks that about thirty seconds oughtta do it, so he pulls away after that. Hannah looks pleased enough.

He crawls back to his spot. 

“How come you always pick dare?” Eddie asks.

Richie clears his throat; turns to see where Eddie's eyes are on him; watching him. “Huh?”

“You always pick dare when we play this. I’ve never once seen you pick truth.”

Richie shrugs. “’Cause truth’s boring. And _you_ pick it enough for the rest of us.”

“Yeah, but I’ve _picked_ dare. You can’t say I haven’t.”

Bill nods. “He’s r-right, Richie.”

Richie’s head darts from Eddie to Bill and back to Eddie, feeling a bit like he’s being fucking ambushed, and doesn’t like it.

“You’ve _never_ picked truth,” Eddie presses.

“I have too!”

“You fucking have _not!”_

_“Why_ are you so upset about this? It’s your turn! Fucking ask me! I’ll pick truth if that’s what turns you on, Jesus!”

“Fine! Truth or dare?”

“Truth!”

“Why don’t you ever pick truth?”

Richie throws his hands up. “Alright, fuck you. Ref? Ref, come on.”

“E-Eddie, come on, he answered you already. H-h-he thinks it’s boring. Do-over.”

Caty yawns. “Yeah, come on, I’m getting _bored_ of this whole conversation.”

“Fine,” Eddie says, after some thought. “I’ll give you a dare, then. It’s what you want anyway.”

“No, no—by all means,” Richie starts. “If you’re gonna be a sour grape about this for the next week, give me a truth, so you can’t fucking bug me about this again.”

“I won’t be a sour grape. I’ll give you a dare.” Eddie’s voice is creepily level, now, like all anger just got _zapped_ right the fuck out of him.

“Fine, just do it already,” Richie says impatiently. “Carol—_Caty’s_ right. This conversation is fucking exhausting.”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

The first stage of grief is Richie doubting whether he heard him right. He does this, over and over and over again, as the room goes deathly silent.

The second stage is pain.

“Unless, I mean,” Eddie keeps going, “that’s a dare you’re too chicken-shit to do.”

_“Eddie—”_ That’s Bill. Bill, who has no idea what to say or do in this situation except to try and get Eddie to stop.

“C’mon, ‘Chee. That’s your whole thing, right? You’ll do any dare, no holds barred? I once saw you basically risk your life mooning Henry Bowers once. This can’t be _that_ bad.” Eddie is taunting him. The malice in his voice is fucking relentless. And Richie’s angry—angry because Eddie’s doing this to him and Richie still looks at him and it’s like he’s glowing. Glowing, and wonderful, and beautiful, and _laughing_ at him with a sneer on his face. Making it purposefully, unbearably clear that Eddie isn’t doing this because he doesn’t _know._ He’s doing it to be cruel.

Eddie knows. Eddie _knows_.

_(“I know your **secret**, your dirty little secret!”)_

_(“Don’t touch them! Don’t touch the other boys, Richie, or they’ll **know**!”)_

_(“They’ll **hate** you. They’ll all hate you and laugh and never ever speak to you again—“)_

_(“You know my Eddie. How well does he tolerate **filth**?”)_

“C’mon, it’s just for a dare, Richie,” one of the girls is saying.

“Would you leave him the fuck alone? If he doesn’t wanna—” Ben is raising his voice which shocks Eddie and most of the others, and probably would shock Richie too if he were capable of being shocked at this point.

“Eddie, hey, maybe you should back off,” Mike says.

“All Richie has to say is he doesn’t want to,” Eddie says. “Which doesn’t make any fucking sense, seeing as he’ll do anything the fuck else anyone asks him to—”

“Fucking _rot in hell_, Eddie.”

Richie says it and is down the hallway and out the back door before he has even the slimmest chance of regretting it.

His box of cigarettes falls out of his hands and into the grass not one, but two times before he manages to put one in his mouth and light it with hands that won’t stop shaking.

There are hot, angry drops of wet that won’t stop pooling in his eyes. They won’t even fall. Not if he wanted them to. They just burn his fucking eyes and make him so, so fucking angry.

The back door slams again.

“What the _fuck?!”_

Richie spins around. “No, _you_ what the_ fuck?_ Fuck you and fuck your fucking _truth or dare_ bullshit!”

_“My_ bullshit? How about _your_ bullshit? You’ll fucking do anything for a dare, but the truth scares the shit out of you!”

“Nothing scares me! Fuck you!”

“Oh, _really?_ What was that back there? That wasn’t you being fucking _scared?”_

“No, asshole, that was me being fucking _pissed at you!_ Where do you get off, pulling shit like that just ‘cause you’re fucking pissed and won’t tell me why? That is not _fucking_ okay!”

“It’s only not fucking okay because you’re fucking afraid!”

“Afraid of _what?_ The fuck do you think I’m afraid of? Huh? I’m not a _fucking faggot!”_

The color drains from Eddie’s face. The angry, hot wet that wouldn’t fall before is now staining the bags underneath Richie’s eyes. His face is hot and red and his throat feels hoarse from screaming so much. Eddie takes two steps away from Richie.

“Richie, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

_“Fuck_ your ‘sorry’. Go fuck yourself.”

“—but you don’t get to fucking say that shit. Don’t say that shit to me.”

“The fuck are you—”

“You know what the fuck I’m talking about, don’t play fucking dumb!” Eddie takes a step closer, angry now again, but in a different way. “You _know_ Stan likes Bill! You know he does, Richie, you _know_ that. What—d’you think Stan’s a _faggot?”_

“Wh—no! No, fu—of course not, I’m not—I didn’t mean—” Richie is stumbling over himself, scrambling for purchase. Trying to explain, desperately trying to get across that _no_, he didn’t know. Except…except he _did_. But not really. He didn’t, really. Except for the part of him that had…_had_ known, and…just…just didn’t—

“The fuck _didn’t you mean?”_ Eddie yells, and he and Richie both know he can’t answer. _“Henry Bowers_ says shit like that. Not you. Just…” Eddie breathes. “Not you.”

Eddie breathes again. And again. And then a little faster, and then he’s wheezing a little.

“Eds. Eddie. Your inhaler, where is it?”

“Gah—fuck, I, uh—”

“Where? Eds, where’d you put it?”

“Bathroom. Fucking…bathroom.”

Richie runs inside. He can’t even see the eyes of the people still in the living room darting towards him at the sound of the back door opening. He grabs the inhaler sitting on the bathroom sink and sprints back outside.

He puts it in Eddie’s hands and helps guide it to his mouth. His hand is on the back of Eddie’s neck as Eddie puffs and starts to breathe right again, closing his eyes and relaxing.

“Hey, you’re okay. Eds, you’re okay,” Richie catches himself saying. “I’m sorry. Eds, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that shit. I knew better. You’re right. I’m sorry, I fucked up.”

Eddie’s still breathing into his inhaler, so Richie continues. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you, you…I shouldn’t have…I was mad, yeah, but…I said some shit to you, and I…shouldn’t have screamed at you like that, okay? That wasn’t right.”

Eddie rips the inhaler from his mouth.

“No, Richie, stop it. I know you have to…I know you feel like you have to look out for me, and humor me and put up with my bullshit just ‘cause I…just ‘cause you’re worried I’ll have a fuckin’ panic attack or something if you don’t, but you don’t have to…I was being a piece of shit. You can say that. I know I was. I was just so caught up in…I was so…I shouldn’t have done that to you. That was shitty. That was so, so shitty. I’ve never done _anything_ like…I’m such an asshole, I’m so sorry. Richie, please…”

“Hey, no. No. No, don’t…Come here.” 

Richie’s hugging him.

He’s hugging him, and it’s really good. They don’t hug that often. And it’s different than when they were kids. Richie’s way taller than Eddie now, and Eddie fits right into the space between his arms like he was made to be there. His body is warm against Richie’s. Eddie’s hair smells so good. It makes him want to cry a little.

“So,” Richie says, voice thick. “Stan and Bill, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie sniffles. “Are you really that fuckin’ blind?”

“’S why I need glasses.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

“You’re gettin’ senile at sixteen, Eds.”

“…Don’t call me that.”

** now **

“Hey! Hey hey hey hey—asshole—gimme the—”

_“Richie—_Richie, c’mon, just—lemme—I need—”

Eddie—the crafty little shit—still manages a puff on his inhaler before Richie yanks it away from him.

“Hey, knock it off! Listen to me!” Richie snaps. He shakes Eddie by his shoulder. “You don’t need that shit! Okay? Hey. Look at me. Who managed to kill a demon clown monster before he was fourteen years old?”

“…I did.”

“Who married and makes love to a woman three times his own body mass?”

“Me. I did.”

“See?” Richie’s looking at him—peering through the dark just to get a good look into his eyes, so he knows that Eddie really gets it. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Eddie’s eyes go very…soft. It’s a couple of too-long moments before Richie realizes that Eddie hasn’t said anything. But Eddie hasn’t looked away either. He’s…staring at him. And for once, Eddie’s eyebrows are turned down at the outside, not the inside. 

Richie shouldn’t want to look at him for as long as he does. If he dies down here, he’ll remember how Eddie looks right now, so it’s the last thing he thinks about.

There’s something he could say here. He knows there is. Just the fucking thought sets his blood on fire. _You’re both probably gonna die,_ is the thought. _Neither of you will be around for him to hate you, anyway. No time for some long, laborious “discussion” about what it means for the two of you, or why Eddie can’t talk to you again because he’s married and loves his wife and, frankly, is uncomfortable being around you anymore. He doesn’t wish you any ill will. He hopes you’re happy. Just…not with him. And even if you don’t die, maybe he’ll forgive you, anyway. You can write it off. It was the heat of the moment. Yeah, you had a crush back when you were kids. It was all the nostalgia, the threat of death, all the memories fucking with your head. You didn’t mean it. You don’t actually lov—_

Richie blinks. It stops whatever was happening there in its tracks.

Eddie nods, and pats Richie’s hand on his shoulder. 

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Richie.”

“Don’t mention it.” Richie slaps his cheek fondly. Eddie swears and recoils in pain. “Shit—sorry.”

“Eddie, sweetie, here,” Bev is calling out behind them. “Listen to me—take this.”

Eddie reaches out and takes the bit of fence post from Bev’s hand.

“This kills monsters,” she tells him. “If you believe it does.”

“If you believe it does. Okay,” Eddie starts whispering under his breath as Bev starts her climb down the sewer grate. _“If you believe it does. If you believe it does.”_

** then **

To be completely and utterly fair to himself (which Richie always likes to be), it’s not as if the thought to tell Eddie had never crossed his mind.

It had. Once. After Mike’s Loser Prom. 

What could he say—spirits were high, and he really, _really_ didn’t want to go to prom with Bethany Kowalski.

In the days after Mike’s dumb-but-wonderful party, Richie’s still high off the feeling of Eddie’s body moving underneath his fingers, and his laugh and his smile, and the way he smelled and spun and danced and let Richie touch him, and touched him back. It’s all he can fucking think about—drives him nuts. Makes him stupid, like the way Ben or Bill always got when Bev was around. Has him smiling all the time—so much that Stan has to _ask him_ to stop. _Multiple times._

He thinks about it a little _too_ much. Too much like he starts to get ideas in his head. Ideas that have him running back all his interactions with Eddie in the past couple of months, wondering if maybe he got it all wrong. Maybe Eddie had been trying to tell him something, with the looks that got him weak in the knees, and the tight jeans and nice-smelling hair and the _cigarette_ comment that Richie had been sure was only _that_ dirty in his head.

Maybe it had been dirty in Eddie’s head, too.

Richie hadn’t thought about Phoebe Cates while he jacked off in a long time. Pretty much since freshman year. But at least when he doesn’t think about her now, he does it guilt-free.

He thinks about telling him all the time, now. He _daydreams_ about it. It flat-out _replaces_ his sex fantasies—of which there were numerous. Instead, he fantasizes about _feelings_ and _holding hands_ and climbing up to Eddie’s bedroom window just to _kiss him_—and _nothing_ else. It makes him a little sick, actually, with how fuckin’ gay it all is.

He goes to sleep at night with thoughts of telling him. Of Eddie accepting him. Of Eddie telling him he feels the same way. Of Eddie kissing him. It becomes his fucking crack-cocaine.

It tunes out everything else. It tunes out the impending prom, and Bethany Kowalski, and the sound of his parents fighting in the living room.

What it doesn’t tune out, unfortunately, is:

_“We’re moving.”_

Richie, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, doesn’t even skip a beat. He just screws up his face and scoffs, because he’d heard his dad wrong.

“Uhh—come again?” he asks, running the faucet.

“Your mother and I have discussed it already. I’ve got a job offer out in Oregon. It’s the first in months, so we’re taking it. It starts the beginning of fall. You can finish your senior year out in—”

“I’m sorry. I think I’ve got some water in my ear from the shower I took last night. Keeps sounding like you’re saying—”

“Richie, _goddammit_, not fucking _now!”_ His dad’s bourbon glass is slammed back against the coffee table. His mom, sitting across from him on the couch, won’t say anything. Not a goddamn thing.

Needless to say, it doesn’t just put all his plans on hold. It shatters them entirely.

** now **

_(“My token is…a yearbook page, from ’89. Only one person signed. I probably should’ve forgotten about it along with the rest, but I couldn’t. Because I kept it in my wallet…for twenty-seven years.”_

_Bev looks at Ben. _

_Richie looks at Eddie._

_“I’ve got…uh, an old arcade chip. From the Cineplex.”_

_“Wait—dude, you brought an actual token?”_

_“Yeah asshole, that’s what we were supposed to do.”_

_“I mean, I don’t know that Mike meant it literally. It was more of a metaphorical umbrella term for—”_

_“Richie. It’s fine.”_

_“Is it working? Mike? Shit, man, is it working?”_

_“Keep chanting! Keep—”_

_“Is supposed to fucking be doing that?”_

_“That’s not supposed to be happening, is it?”_

_“Mike!”)_

_(**“Oh ho ho ho, I know what you are, Mikey. You’re not a man. You’re a monster.”**)_

They weren’t just up shit creek, they were drowning in it.

And while Richie was complaining—fuck Mike. Fuck him. Just fuck him right to hell. Fuck him for calling and fuck him for lying about the whole damn thing, and fuck him for being _nice_ while he did it.

_(**“For twenty-seven years, I dreamt of you. I craved you. I missed you.”**)_

Richie’s grabbing Eddie with both hands and pulling him under the rocky outcropping as the cavern floor shakes under their feet. They’re fucking running, until the tunnel comes to an abrupt halt, and splits into three doors.

_(Very Scary, Scary, Not Scary At All.)_

“Wh—well, Not Scary, right? Right? Not Scary.”

“Wh-w-wait! Fuck! No, I’ve seen this shit before. He’s…he’s fucking with us.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m positive he’s fucking with us.”

“Well, Richie, that doesn’t really help us at all. That could mean anything.”

“Very Scary. We should go Very Scary.”

“Wait—what about just…plain old Scary?”

“That…I mean. That could work. Middle of the road, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, fuck, I don’t know.”

“Scary?”

“Scary.”

“Right? How bad can it be?”

Richie sighs, and opens the door.

** then **

(He remembers it now.

That first kick in the balls. He remembers what it was. What it felt like. The ache, the pain. Why Mike’s phone call made him puke his guts out, and bomb his Chicago set. Why he’s so angry all the time. Why he’s so sad. Why everything makes him feel lonely. Why everything makes him feel nothing. He remembers.)

Stan had left his house that morning, after Richie had assured him he’d done all he could to help him pack the last of his boxes. He’d tried to get rid of stuff, anyway, so there wasn’t much to pack. He couldn’t bring Derry with him to the West Coast. He wouldn’t bring it with him. Better to pack light.

He was not on speaking-terms with his parents. Not that they would notice if he were. Sarah had called yesterday, though she’d sounded pretty strange. She wanted to know if he was okay, with the move and all that. He’d told her a lot of half-truths. Whenever he’d mentioned Derry by name though, she’d gone real quiet. Then her next words would sound real confused, like she wasn’t sure where she was anymore. The conversation had been pretty short, as far as talks with Sarah generally went.

Richie would leave Derry tomorrow morning.

He was ready to go, he told himself. He’d been born ready. He would leave, and start a whole new life, just like Bev had. He could be brave like her, and he would never look back. 

There is a furious knocking at the front door.

_“Richie!”_ his mom calls from her bedroom. 

He throws a jacket on his open suitcase and turns around to jog down the hall. The knocking doesn’t let up.

“Alright, alright, Jesus, would you calm the fuck—” he opens the door wide, and the rest of his words get lost in his throat.

“The fuck, Rich? You weren’t gonna call me?” Eddie is already in his house. Richie is doing a double-take, and his mouth is hanging open and won’t seem to close itself.

“I sat around all damn morning waiting for you to call ‘cause I figured you were busy,” Eddie continues, “but you didn’t, and now it’s already past noon and we’re burning daylight.”

Eddie is walking down the hall. Richie can’t do anything but trail behind him, in something of a daze.

“I figured we’d hit up all the old haunts, you know?” Eddie is saying. “I haven’t had lunch yet—we can swing by the diner, maybe catch a movie. You remember Ben’s old clubhouse in the Barrens? God, I haven’t been down there in a few years. Wonder if it’s still standing. I told him back in the day the damn thing was lacking structural integrity, but he didn’t believe me.”

Eddie storms into his bedroom without skipping even a beat. He stands in front of the open suitcase.

“I guess we’ll see who was right, after all. Hey, so you’re really all packed, huh? Man, it’s pretty bare in here—”

_“Eddie,”_ Richie breathes, because he just needs him to _stop._

Eddie stops, but he keeps his back to Richie. He puts his head down. He remains still.

“Eddie, you…” Richie swallows. “We haven’t said a word to each other in over three months.”

“I know.” It’s very quiet. It causes a sharp pang in Richie’s heart.

“I didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“I can’t do it, Rich,” he says. “I won’t do it. I won’t let you leave like that.”

Richie sighs. “Eddie, we’ve talked about this, I’m leaving. I’ve gotta leave, I—”

“No—no, I…I get that. I just mean…” Eddie faces him now. “I don’t wanna think about prom, Richie.”

Richie takes a few big steps closer—gets a good look at Eddie’s face. He looks tired as all fuckin’ get-out. His eyes are red. His frown is deep. He looks tense.

“O-Okay. Okay, I can…we can do that.” Richie agrees. “Eddie, are you okay? You don’t…you don’t look so good.”

“Shit, I—” Eddie sniffles, and rubs his eyes. “I’m fine. Really, I…I’m fine.” Eddie smiles up at him—or, as close to a smile as it looks like he can give. “I want to spend the day with you.”

“Yeah,” Richie says too quickly. “Yeah, we can do all those things. I want…I’d like that, too.”

They drive in Richie’s pickup truck to the diner first and have lunch. Eddie mentions to Sandy that it’s Richie’s last day in town, and she gets them burgers and shakes on the house. 

“Uhh…shit, uh…Guns N’ Roses?”

“No offense, Richie, but not my thing.”

“Fair enough. How about The Who?”

_“The Who…”_ Eddie repeats while he writes it down on his adorable little pad of paper. He shoves the tip of his tongue out the corner of his mouth while he writes. Richie doesn’t think it’s very fair of him. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“Talking Heads?”

“Who?”

“Nah—Eddie, that was the last one. Keep up.”

“Sorry. Sorry._ Talking Heads_. Got it.”

“Oh, shit,” Richie remembers. “Fleetwood Mac.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ll love ‘em. _Rumours_, it’s…it’s the greatest album ever made.”

“I thought _Disintegration_ was the greatest album ever made.”

Eddie looks across at him through heavy lashes, with eyes that _know_ what Richie is remembering right now. It sends a shock through Richie’s entire body, down to his toes, and…other, more erogenous places.

Richie smiles with gentle affection. “Second-best.”

When they go to leave and walk across the street to the theatre, Richie takes the time to drink Eddie in as he skips along ahead of him, smiling and laughing and spinning in the late-summer breeze and talking about how Richie should read Kerouac. Richie will, he thinks. So long as he remembers, he will. But he’s scared—scared he won’t. Scared he’ll start to forget as soon as he crosses the state line. He watches Eddie, and feels his eyes grow wet, and start to sting.

_Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ is just about the funniest movie Richie’s ever seen. And Eddie had to even talk him into it, ‘cause it was a musical. _“Yeah, but like _Rocky Horror_ is a musical,”_ he’d said. _“It’s funny. Come on, you’ll like it.”_ He and Eddie share a big tub of popcorn, and half of it probably ends up on the floor, ‘cause they’re laughing so hard. Eddie sometimes even grabs onto his arm. Richie doesn’t know why, ‘cause nothing’s scary. But he doesn’t say anything about it, and doesn’t complain.

Eddie suggests walking through the arcade on the way out. Richie suggests maybe going out the other door.

It’s late and already dark when they get out. Richie mentions—quietly—that they maybe ought to call it a night, but Eddie shakes his head and pouts, like he couldn’t comprehend why Richie would suggest such a thing. Richie is very easily moved by this.

He is even further moved when Eddie approaches him slowly and stands too close—close so their chests are nearly touching. He looks up at Richie with the eyes that Richie remembers from Mike’s prom—the ones with the matching sultry lips which formed the words, _“Richie Tozier’s cigarette,”_. Richie swallows, and feels Eddie’s scent and heat in his dick.

“Drive me to the quarry,” Eddie tells him, biting at his bottom lip.

Richie figures he can probably do that.

Richie always knew Eddie was smarter than he was, but this only proves it. At the quarry, they can see every star in the sky. The breeze is perfect—just enough to shoot tingles down their skin. The lake looks like crystals.

Eddie grabs the blanket from Richie’s backseat and lays it out on the bed of Richie’s truck. Richie’s palms are getting sweaty and itchy, but it’s worth it if this is the payoff. Richie gets in and lays down; props his head up with his arms folded behind his head and tries not to look too much like he’s panicking. Eddie climbs in after him. 

“When did you find this place?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Before I met you,” Richie answers in kind. “We sorta stumbled upon it on accident. Bill, Stan and I felt like real explorers back in our day. The three musketeers.”

“And then I came along and ruined it,” Eddie says with a quiet laugh, but Richie hates that he says it—hates that it sounds sad in the way that it does.

“No,” Richie tells him. “No, you didn’t. You made it better. A lot better.”

Eddie looks back to him with the stars reflected in his eyes. And then, in a manner that’s almost shy, Eddie looks down at his feet.

“Either way,” Eddie starts. “I’ve always loved this place. It might…it might be my favorite place in the world.”

“Why’s that?” Richie asks, choosing not to be mean and point out that Eddie hasn’t exactly seen the world; that he’s only seen just a small portion of the northeastern United States. But he gets that that’s not really the point.

“Because it doesn’t feel like Derry,” Eddie answers, simply. “It feels like somewhere else.”

It’s not a thought that comes without lingering, sickening guilt, but it is, somehow, one that comes easily. Richie wants to have sex with Eddie in the bed of his pickup truck.

He wants to make love to him, really. He wants to be on top, so that Eddie can look at the stars while they do it. He wants to take Eddie’s clothes off and throw them in the grass. He wants to blow him slow—wants to make it last—and wants to listen to the sounds Eddie makes while he does. He wants Eddie’s moans and the sound of Richie’s name from his lips to bounce off the mountain-high stone walls of the quarry; wants them to fade out into the night air.

“Do you know how many people have had sex in this exact spot?” Eddie asks, and Richie coughs, and nearly dies.

“Wh-what?”

“Oh God, yeah. People drive their cars up here all the time to hook up. How many people d’you think have knocked boots on _this_ exact patch of grass? Guess.”

“Uh—Gee, I don’t, uh…”

“It’s kinda…spooky, actually.” Eddie smiles and rolls his shoulders back in a shiver. “I wonder if you listen close enough, if you can still hear their moans.”

“Alright, knock it off.”

“Look at you! All flustered.”

“I am not—I’m _not_ flustered.”

“Yes you are; it’s adorable.”

“Stop,” Richie says, only half-meaning it.

Eddie is still smiling to himself, real proud. But he takes a moment. The smile fades a little.

“Thought you’d had sex with lots of people,” Eddie says.

Richie tries to swallow, but his throat is dry. 

“Not…not so many.”

Eddie nods. He’s not smiling anymore.

“Still more than me.”

_oh god oh god oh god oh—_

“Race you!” Eddie is up and out of the truck bed, jacket discarded, and already running down the hill to the rocky shore before Richie can fucking _blink._

“Hey—_Hey,_ fuckin’ cheater! Get your ass back here!” Richie is saying as he’s already hopped out and pulling his shoes off. Once they are, he’s sprinting after him, ripping his shirt off down the middle as he goes, popping button by button.

Richie’s carried by the moment, and has a stupid grin on his face until he gets down to meet Eddie at the shore.

Somehow, his brain had not caught up to the situation—had not worked out on his way down the hill that inevitably, this game of theirs would end in a nearly-naked Eddie.

Eddie stands on a rock in only his underwear, bathed by moonlight.

Eddie lifts the corner of his mouth in lazy amusement; shrugs. “Beat you,” he says. He dips his toe in the lake.

Richie takes off his own t-shirt and jeans in a daze. He doesn’t remove his eyes from Eddie. He doesn’t think he’s even capable of it.

Eddie walks into the lake. He turns, once he’s about calf-deep, and hops a little bit, up and down.

“It’s fucking cold!” he shouts back.

Richie just laughs at him.

Eddie moves deeper into the lake. “No, you have to come in, though!”

“Why?” Richie asks.

“So we can say we did!”

To Richie, it seems, the answer is obvious. “So, let’s _not_ and say we—”

“Richie!” Eddie whines. “It’s the last time!”

Richie relents. He sets his glasses down on the rock. In his stupid black boxer shorts with dinosaurs on them, he goes full-throttle, and runs into the water. He grabs Eddie by the waist—as Eddie screams out his laughter into the night—and pulls him in with him, into the deep.

No sooner than they’ve gone under water, they are scrambling for the surface. Richie takes a deep breath of air; Eddie spits out water and gasps.

_“Oh! Holy shit,_ that’s fucking cold! Holy fuck!”

“You did this to yourself, really.”

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck—”

“Oh, what, you don’t wanna stay and swim for a while? But _Eds,_ it’s the _last time—”_

“Nope we did it we got in the water, now let’s fucking go Richie let’s fucking go right now—”

Eddie is already swimming for the shore. Richie is following him.

They run back up the hill to the car with their clothes in hand. They share the blanket, using it to get dry. Eddie’s hair is wonderful—unkempt and falling all over the place. Eddie giggles because Richie’s hair looks like a nest. Like something might actually be living in it. Richie doesn’t find it as funny.

Wrapped in the towel together in nothing but their underwear, Richie thinks about sex again. It is impossible not to; not to think about the intimacy of the quarry or the way the light hit every one of Eddie’s features. 

But the more Richie looks at him, and thinks about fucking him, the faster the shame creeps in.

He hands the blanket back to Eddie, pretending that he’s dry faster than he is. He puts his clothes back on and faces away, out towards the lake, and as he does so, he cools off. When he gets back in the driver’s seat, he swears he won’t think about it anymore that night; and doesn’t.

After that, Eddie says, there’s only one place left to go.

When they’ve reached the outskirts of the Barrens, they park on the road and have to get out and, between the two of them, remember the way to get there, which causes a decent amount of bickering. Nothing serious, though, just…the way it always was. The way it used to be. It actually makes Richie very happy. It seems to make Eddie happy too. The bickering dissolves into laughing very quickly.

They find the old clubhouse when Eddie trips over the wooden hatch, hidden by the grass. Richie catches him fast, his arms holding Eddie’s and steadying him so he doesn’t fall again. Eddie straightens himself out, and is standing very close—close so Richie can smell his shampoo again.

They laugh it off. Richie clears his throat. Eddie brushes off his jeans.

Richie pulls the hatch all the way open, and both of them start coughing and covering their mouths with their shirts because of all the dust. Once the worst of it dissipates, Richie gestures grandly down the ladder.

“After you.”

Once they’re both inside, Eddie starts taking it all in, eyes wide and one corner of his mouth upturned. “Holy shit,” he says. “It’s all still here. Just like I remember it.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie moves around the space like he’s stepping on hallowed ground. He finds the bookcase against the wall, picks up something and opens it.

“Wow,” he says. “These are Bev’s old drawings.”

Richie moves so he can look over his shoulder.

“She was pretty good,” Eddie remarks.

“Yeah. She was.”

Richie is the one who finds the dusty bins of cassette tapes. Eddie runs his fingers over them reverently.

“Didn’t you want to keep any of these?” he asks.

Richie shrugs. “Most of them were Bev’s, or Bill’s. Forgot these were even here, honestly. I kept the ones that mattered, though.”

Eddie looks up at him, and nods that he understands.

The clubhouse feels so much different than it ever had. It isn’t just the dust, or the time that separated Richie and Eddie from it. Being there at night feels strange. Strange, and new, and kind of wonderful. All that is there with them is the sound of the cicadas chirping, and the breeze through the trees and grass above them. And their memories.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes from across the room. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

_“Oh my God,”_

“Eddie, don’t do that, you little shit, what is it?”

“Richie…” and by the time Richie walks over there, Eddie has turned to face him, holding a bundle of fabric in his hands.

Richie feels floored—transported five years back. He feels the weight of the bundle in Eddie’s arms; feels the weight of it in his stomach.

“Oh,” he says. “Shit.”

Eddie blinks and looks up at him, eyes bright with life.

“Let’s stay here tonight, ‘Chee.”

“Wh—_What?”_

Eddie is smirking. Like a dare. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun? That’s fun to you? Sleeping down here with the dust and the bugs and spiders and field mice—that’s fuckin’ _fun_ to you? Who are you and what have you done to Eddie Kaspbrak?”

“Come on, Richie. We’re not afraid of fucking spiders.” Eddie brushes past him with a light shove as their shoulders bump together.

“Eddie, come on, I’ve got an early morning, and my folks, they’ll—”

“We’ll wake up in time. My body’s a fool-proof natural alarm clock.”

“Oh. _Great._ Yeah, I forgot.”

Eddie’s already setting it up—hooking the rope around one sturdy wooden beam.

“We’re gonna break that hammock. I’m not thirteen anymore, Eds, I’m not sure I’ll even fit in the damn thing.”

Eddie pauses, and glances up at him, beaming. He smiles.

“We’ll fit.” He goes back to tying the knot. He keeps glancing between Richie and the rope, looking practically giddy. “Don’t call me that,” he adds.

Richie’s eyes go a little wide. He adjusts his glasses—probably, if he’s being honest, as a nervous tick. He steps closer to the hammock and picks up the other end of the rope.

Even as he’s tying it to the wooden post, Richie asks: “Do you think this is really a good idea?”

Eddie blinks at him. He doesn’t frown, but his smile’s gone. 

“Yeah, Richie,” he says. “Yeah, I do.”

Eddie is the first to crawl in, when it’s set up. That’s all it takes to bring the smile back. He stretches out in the thing languidly, like a cat, and Richie looks away quickly, face hot. 

Moments later, Eddie almost looks like he might be asleep, except for when he opens his mouth to say: “Richie? Are you gonna…?”

“Oh, uh. Right.”

Richie goes around the left side, and crawls in. He doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t crawl in head-to-toe. He lays his head next to Eddie’s, staring up at the ceiling.

Eddie bumps Richie’s feet with his own.

“Take your shoes off. You’re gonna rip the cloth.”

“Mm. Mmkay.” 

Richie bends his knees one at a time, unties and kicks off his shoes. He almost hates to admit being so wrong about something, but the hammock is actually bigger than he remembers it being. And very comfortable. He tucks his arms under his head and feels his eyes already threatening to close.

Eddie turns on his side, and props himself up on one elbow.

“Are those traces of a smile I see?”

“Hm?”

“Richie Tozier, are you…_happy?”_

Richie opens his eyes. Eddie is smiling—all teeth.

“Yeah. Yeah, Eds, I’m happy.”

Eddie looks down. His other hand reaches up and starts fiddling with the fabric at the cuff of Richie’s sleeve. Richie’s skin tingles in response.

“Happy you’re leaving, or…happy because of today?”

Richie’s face feels very warm. And with the way Eddie is playing with his shirt—touching him but very definitely, very purposefully _not_ touching him at all—Richie feels completely unable to move.

It was funny. But funny in the kinda way that would _never_ make for a good stand-up joke. Funny in the kinda way that really wasn’t very fucking funny at all. But as soon as he had stepped foot in the clubhouse, all thought of leaving Derry had slipped his mind. All thought of the rest of the world had slipped his mind. The only things that were—that existed in the present sense, were Eddie and this place. He wonders if Eddie had known this would happen.

“I’m happy because of today,” he says, with the last bit of breath left in his lungs.

Eddie gives the softest, and saddest smile that Richie has ever seen on a person. “Good,” he says.

“Richie,” he says again, after the silence goes on so long that Richie knows Eddie can’t stand it anymore.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna miss you,” Eddie tells him, and it’s so dark in the clubhouse that Richie can barely make out a sheen in Eddie’s eyes. “It’s all I could think about for three months. How much I’m gonna miss you.”

Richie feels the tears in his throat. “I’m gonna miss you, too,” he says.

“No, you won’t.” But Eddie doesn’t say it particularly sad, or angry. More like just a fact.

“What…what does that mean?” Richie asks, though he knows.

“You’ll forget me,” Eddie says. “Just like Bev and Ben and Bill and the rest. It’s not you, it’s the place. In a week, you won’t know who I am anymore. You won’t even be able to find Derry on a map.”

Richie doesn’t—_can’t_—say anything. He can only watch.

“I’ll remember you, though. For years and years. You were right. My mom won’t let me go to college out of state. I’ll go to UM. I’ll live at home, and commute.”

“Eddie—”

“I think I might be the last one of us left in Derry. I’ve had to come to terms with that, you know. These last three months. I’m sorry, it’s…it’s _one_ of the reasons why…we couldn’t talk. It hasn’t been easy.”

“Eddie, you’ll make other friends—”

“You’re not my _friend_, Richie!”

Richie swallows. Eddie breathes in sharply.

“You…you’re not my friend.”

Richie would be hurt, if he didn’t get it.

_Eddie, I have to tell you something. Eddie, I have to tell you something. Eddie, I have to—_

It goes around and around in his head, bouncing off against every wall. 

He wants to. He wants to so bad like he’s never wanted to in his life. But then, he thinks.

He thinks about when Eddie called him selfish. And how he knows he was right. Because he thinks about Eddie alone, for five years or more in Derry, with only the memories of his friends who wouldn’t know him even if they passed him by on the street. Eddie, alone with the memory of Richie, who told him…_that_, and then left, and forgot him. The last thing he’ll remember of Richie is…is that he’d kept a monster secret from him for almost ten years. That he wasn’t really much of a friend at all. That every time he’d been looking at him, speaking to him, touching him…he’d been thinking awful thoughts. Dirty thoughts. Thoughts that betrayed all their years of friendship, and all of Eddie’s trust. That maybe…maybe he’d poisoned him into being his friend in the first place. That maybe it was all a lie.

Richie makes his decision, then and there. He makes it, and he swears by it.

“Eds.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For today.”

“Of course, I—” Eddie’s mouth, hanging open as if frozen, shuts abruptly.

“What?”

“No. Nothing. It can wait.”

“Okay.”

Eddie lays his head back down. Richie follows the movement. Eddie’s eyelids are heavy almost instantly. A faint smile still remains on his lips.

“Hey, Eddie? Can I ask you something, before I lose ya?”

“Mhmm.”

Richie smiles warmly. “Why the hell am I sleeping in this hammock?”

“Mm. Wanted to…see what you looked like in it. If you…still looked…the same.”

Eddie is asleep in three seconds flat. Richie remains, and dozes off a bit later, feeling surrounded both by the heat from Eddie’s body and the dim, dull draft of the old clubhouse.

Waking the next morning is conducted mostly in silence. Eddie, as promised, rises at 6am with the sun. Richie, still very drowsy, puts on his shoes and rubs at the sleep in his eyes. Eddie, on their way out, grabs a box of cassette tapes and hugs them tightly to his chest.

“If no one else is gonna take ‘em…seems a waste,” he says with a shrug.

The cassette tapes are stored gingerly in the backseat of Richie’s truck. 

The drive is too long for the horrible ache that begins to grow and consume all of Richie’s body. He wonders if Eddie feels the dread, too.

The sky is orange, and The Smiths play softly on the car radio.

_“So, please, please, please, let me, let me, let me, let me get what I want this time,”_

They’re a few yards away from the kissing bridge, when Richie misses Eddie reaching into his pocket, and pulling something out, which he places in the tape deck. With a firm press of a button, Morrissey cuts out.

_“Whenever I’m alone with you,_

_You make me feel like I am home again,”_

Richie stops the car.

He’s pulled over, with the car in park on the side of the road. Richie has his head in his hand, keeled over and leaning towards the open window, because the sound coming from the radio is causing him to feel a very physical pain.

“Eddie,” he mumbles into his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve listened to the tape you made me almost every day since prom,” Eddie says.

_“Eddie.”_ But he means_ please._

“Why did you put this song on the tape, Richie?”

“Eddie, please stop—”

“Richie,” Eddie presses, but softly. 

But Richie can’t. _Can’t._

“Okay,” Eddie says. “I’ll start. Richie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I spent three months thinking about everything I’ve said—everything I’ve been saying to you for two years. And I don’t recognize myself. You’re right, things _have_ changed, and somehow I’d convinced myself that none of that was my fault, but it _was_. I’ve treated you like garbage, and you were only nice enough to put up with it ‘cause you’re _you_. Richie, listen to me—”

“Eddie—”

“You’re _not_ selfish. You’re not insensitive, you’re not a piece of shit, you’re not any of that shit I said!” Eddie is crying. “You’re a great friend. You’re better to me than I deserve. Way better. You’re good to everyone because you’re just _like that._ Your whole thing is how you just want to make people feel better. Bev, Bill, Stan, Mike, Ben, me. I knew you didn’t care about Stan liking Bill! I knew that’s not what you meant, you...you were hurt because I fucking _did_ that to you, with that _stupid_ fucking dare, and I…”

_“Eds,”_

“You’ve looked after us—looked after _me_ my entire life—Jesus, Richie, I’m _alive_ because of you. You always know the right thing to say. You always know what to do. When I call you, you pick up. When I ask you to come over, you’re knocking at my window in ten minutes. When I’m having an attack, you get me my inhaler—even though it’s not asthma, it’s never been fucking asthma, it’s bullshit, and you know that. You knew that when we were fucking _nine.”_

“I’m begging you, Eddie, please.”

_“Nine,_ Richie. You know not one person in my life has ever told me to my face what my mom was? Not a single fucking one? Just _you._ I don’t rely on _anyone_ the way I rely on you to _be there_ for me and now you—”

Richie manages to look. Eddie’s face is wet. He is sobbing, and his voice is breaking.

“—now you’re leaving, and you…you gave me this _tape_, and I’ve wasted…_years_ making you think that I…that I _think_ that shit about you. That I don’t—that I don’t—”

_“Eddie,”_ and this time, Richie’s groan of pain is loud enough to get Eddie’s attention.

“Eddie, I can’t do this. I can’t do this right now, you need... to _stop._ I can’t. I can’t, I’m leaving, I’m—”

“If you don’t have anything to say to me after the way I’ve treated you, I understand, I just—”

_“That’s not it!”_ Richie’s yelling. “That’s not it, _goddammit!”_ He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “I have _everything_ to say to you! Don’t you fucking know that?! Don’t you—”

“Richie…”

“God, I’m sorry.” Richie leans forward and groans, hands and forehead buried against the wheel, hidden from Eddie’s view. “I didn’t run outside to find you at prom to tell you I was moving. I didn’t. I fucking lied. I just missed you. You were gone for an _hour_, and I couldn’t take it. And I missed you so bad I’d forgotten about the moving thing. So don’t tell me I won’t miss you once I’m gone. Don’t tell me that shit—it’s not true. Prom sucked without you. It sucked shit. The only time I had fun at a prom was at Mike’s, and it was when I was dancing with you.”

Richie leans back in his seat, not caring any more. He knows his cheeks are wet now, just like Eddie’s. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t _care._

“Your mom’s awful. She’s a fucking bitch. She doesn’t deserve you. I don’t want you to let her make you stay here for five more years. I don’t want you to let her make you do anything. You’re the kindest, fucking _smartest_, bravest person I’ve ever met, and you deserve better than having to live half a life because that abominable cunt has convinced you that that’s all you’re good enough for.”

“And what’s more,” Richie continues, “is that you have never needed me for anything a day in your _goddamn_ life. You don’t need anyone for anything. You’re gonna be fine. Never been more sure of anything than I am of that.”

_“Whenever I’m alone with you,_

_You make me feel like I am—”_

“—And you know why I put the fucking song on the goddamn tape.”

Eddie’s mouth is hot against his, and it’s firm, and insistent. It feels better than Bev's smile, or Sarah's hugs, or riding with Bill on the back of Silver. It feels like all of those things and still, it feels better. It feels like Richie's worth something. It feels like every memory he has of Eddie, all of them--the best ones--compacted into the warmth and feel of his lips. It feels like every great song he's ever heard. It feels like flying; like he's the King of the fucking world.

Eddie’s hands are on his cheeks and around his neck, and pulling him closer towards the passenger seat and Richie, unthinking, follows. He remembers to lick the seam of Eddie’s mouth open. Eddie moans when he does. Eddie bites down on his bottom lip, and starts arching into him; threading his hands up through the hair at the nape of Richie’s neck and massaging his scalp. Richie groans at the feeling. Wants Eddie to know how _good_, how fucking _good…_

Richie’s hands are on Eddie’s back—mostly because he doesn’t know where else to put them. Eddie’s hands, however, move with a fucking _purpose._ Eddie’s left hand is still gripping at Richie’s hair. Eddie’s right hand moves down Richie’s chest, and finds Richie’s dick rather fucking expediently.

He almost tells Eddie not to bother, because he’s pretty sure he already came ten seconds ago. But Eddie finds him hard as a goddamn rock, and starts palming and squeezing through Richie’s jeans, and Richie can’t rub together the brain cells to tell him not to, so he lets him, moaning into Eddie’s mouth and rocking into the hand.

That’s when the kisses start getting slower, and deeper. And Eddie moans, and moves his right hand to the button of Richie’s jeans. And Richie’s brain—which had been M.I.A. for a very fucking long time—catches up to him, and causes him to realize that Eddie’s moan sounded an awful lot like, _“I love you,”._

The universe comes to one unanimous, heart-pounding, screeching halt.

Richie’s hands move from Eddie’s back to Eddie’s wrists. He’s gentle about it, or he tries to be, but he stops him. And he tries to keep their lips away from each other, even though every other part of him is screaming at him not to.

“Eddie—”

“What, Richie—”

“Eddie, no. Stop.”

“What? What are you—”

“Stop. Stop it. You…you don’t know what you’re…”

“Huh?”

“You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, alright? You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand. Rich, why won’t you look at me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, all right? I shouldn’t have done that. Shit. _Fuck._ I shouldn’t have done—”

“Wh—Richie, I kissed_ you.”_

“No, I know, but I said…I said some shit I should not have said, alright? That was not cool of me, I should not have—”

“…What? Told me you love me?”

“I did _not _say that shit, Eddie. Don’t fuckin’ twist my words like that, you’re confused. I confused you. I didn’t—”

“Don’t. Richie, don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to leave you and have you thinking some shit that’s not…that’s…look, Eddie. You’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and I—”

“Please, Richie, _please_ don’t do this, please—”

“I care about you a _lot._ I got confused. I’m…my emotions are all outta whack right now, I don’t fuckin’ know which way is up, and I’m about to pack up my shit and get in my car and never see you again, okay? I’m a mess, you’re a goddamn mess, this was _not…_we should not have done that, Eddie, we—”

“I didn’t fucking see you trying to make out with Bill, before he left! Because you got fucking _confused!”_

“Don’t fucking be like that, okay? I get you’re upset, but why can’t you just get that we—”

“_Why_ won’t you fucking _look at me?!”_

“Stop screaming at me!”

_“Richie!”_

“I don’t even like _guys_, Eddie, it’s not like that! I’m sorry, alright! I’m sorry I kissed you back, I’m sorry I gave you that fucking tape with the song on it! It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“You’re lying. You’re fucking lying to me. Stop it.”

“I’m not—Eds, Eddie, I’m _not_. I’m not. I’m not lying to you. That stuff about prom—I meant it, okay, I missed you. You’re my best friend. But I didn’t mean it…not like that, okay? I had sex with Bethany Kowalski that night.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Stop.”

“I went home with her. We had a great time. I liked her. I like girls.”

“Stop it. Stop being fucking mean, stop—”

“I gave you that song because you said you liked it once. That’s all.”

“I _hate _you.”

It’s something that he knows, the very instant that it’s said, will ruin him. Eddie’s face is crushed and broken, but he doesn’t say it out of spite, just to be cruel. The words sound exactly like other words he’s said, when Richie knew he really meant them. _(“You’re an **asshat**,” “I **love** this song, Richie,” “I **hate** you,”.)_

“…Eds, no…you don’t—”

Eddie doesn’t say anything more. He turns around in his seat, and stares out the window.

“Eds…”

It’s done. 

It’s over.

(It’s the last words Eddie says to him. Richie will drive him back to the Tozier house. Richie will hug Mike, and Stan, but not Eddie. Richie will get back in his truck. He will cry on the road to Portland. He will stop crying at some point between Vermont and New York, and he will forget why he started in the first place.)

** now **

Richie had learned then, as he was learning again now, that nothing lasts forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


	5. Two Storms

** then **

“Richie, you’re hurt,” Eddie observes with a consummate frown.

“Huh. Yeah. Guess I am,” Richie observes also as he lays flat on his back on Eddie’s bedroom floor, staring cockeyed at the large scrape on his knee. It’s large. Very large. He must have gotten it from some sharp branch on that bitch of a tree. He bets Sonia planted it. Woman was always out to murder him.

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” he says, punctuated by his head falling with a loud _bump_ back against the carpet.

Eddie is already racing over to him with his unzipped fanny pack, rifling through it like it was a Mary Poppins bag with no bottom. 

“Richie, c’mon, sit up.”

“Hnnngg…”

“Quit being a baby. Sit up on the bed.”

Richie does—he uses all of his strength to push himself up onto the edge of Eddie’s bed. _Eddie’s bed._ With blue bedsheets and white pillows. Where Eddie sleeps and dreams. Eddie lays here every night, and it smells like him.

Richie avoids placing his hand down on the comforter and staring a little too reverently.

“What’d you do that for, ‘Chee?” Eddie asks as he kneels to place a neon green Band-Aid on Richie’s scraped knee. 

Richie shrugs; looks anywhere but down at Eddie. 

“Wanted to see you ‘s all.”

Eddie frowns some more. “It was stupid. My mom could’ve heard you. And you could’ve _died.”_

“What? I was so quiet! And could _not._ Broken a leg or an arm, maybe, but—”

“And you’re bleeding all over my room.” Eddie’s hands are on his hips—angry, but it’s so _adorable._

“Eddie, relax. I’m not gonna get any blood on you, or your room. You fixed me up so good—see?” Richie wiggles his knee, where you can’t even see the scrape anymore. “Good as new.”

Eddie still pouts. “But you got hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt just trying to see me. ‘S not worth it.”

Richie’s eyes turn downward. Eddie had been out of school for a week now. Every time Richie had knocked on his front door to ask what the hell was up, Mrs. K said it was a bad cold, and had slammed it back in his face.

It was not a cold. Eddie had called him this afternoon in tears. He had spent the week in and out of doctor’s offices and emergency rooms—poked and prodded with needles and a bunch of other bullshit tests. There was nothing wrong with him, but last Monday, he had raised his voice at his mom. Said something that made her real angry. She spent the week convincing herself, and every doctor within ten miles of Derry, that Eddie had thyroid disease, that made him irritable, and a bunch of other bullshit symptoms.

But he didn’t have that either.

Eddie had not called him on the phone before, so Richie knew it must be serious. Hearing him cry wasn’t very fun, either. It was pretty much the worst sound Richie had ever heard. So not seeing Eddie tonight had never really been an option. And if Mrs. K wasn’t gonna let him in through the front door…well. Then, he needed to get creative.

Because Eddie _was_ worth it.

“’Course I had to see you, Eds. You got hurt first. And worse than me, anyway.”

“I didn’t get hurt, Richie.” Eddie looks confused.

“Yeah, you did. She hurt you.”

Eddie’s eyes go a little big. He starts to stare blankly off into the distance. He looks like he’s thinking really hard.

“How ‘bout this, Eds,” Richie starts. “I agree to be extra super careful next time I crawl in through your window—”

_“Next_ time?”

“—and you agree that whenever she pulls some shit like this again, you call me. Right away. Got it?”

Eddie looks at Richie and nods his head up and down.

“Got it. But you gotta promise to be careful. That way you don’t have to clean me out of band-aids.” Eddie is smiling big and wide and toothless—genuine—like Richie just gave him some really great gift. 

Richie is sorta taken aback by it. But he smiles back at him anyway.

“I promise,” he says. “’Cause I don’t ever wanna see you get hurt, Eds.”

Eddie’s smile turns shy.

It’s a good deal, Richie thinks.

** now **

_“Richie, hon-honey.”_

_“What?”_

_“Honey. Honey, he’s—he’s dead.”_

** then **

(The past, Richie has found, is a tricky bitch.)

Richie slams the front door.

On the couch in the living room, an open newspaper hides his father’s face from view. It stops Richie in his tracks. He was not supposed to be home. He wasn’t _ever_ home. He didn’t ever sit on that couch in the middle of the day. Richie hardly ever saw him. Richie fucking _wanted_ it that way.

The newspaper flips down as quick as the door has slammed back into the frame. Richie, fast as lightning, tucks the pocketknife in his hand into his back pocket. (It was his dad’s. Richie had stolen it to do something that he_ needed_ to do.)

“Don’t slam that door ever again, you hear me?”

Richie nods.

“I said, did you _hear_ me?”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

His father puts the newspaper down on the coffee table. He places his hands on his knees. He regards Richie menacingly from across the room.

Because this is all that Richie’s father did whenever he was home. He waited for an excuse. 

“Where were you?”

_“Out.”_

“It’s a _school night.”_

“School got out last _Friday._ And you would know that if you weren’t out on a bender all week.”

“Richard, I was _working.”_

“You don’t have a _job.”_

“I was _job-hunting.”_

“Yeah. Okay.”

It is so quiet then that Richie can hear himself swallow. He can hear his father breathe on the couch. He can hear the drip of their leaky faucet.

His dad puts on a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He raises his arms in a gesture that’s meant to be inviting. He stands from the couch.

“Let’s start over, son, huh? Let’s start over. How was your day, huh? What’d you do today?”

_(fingers lingering too long breath hitching you didn’t tell me you had fairies in your town henry carving with the knife like ben’s poem get out of here faggot splinter in his thumb, to make it real)_

Richie shrugs. “Went to the arcade.”

His father breathes through his nose; nods. “You spend a lot of time there, don’tcha?”

“So?”

_“So?_ Don’t talk to your father like that. _‘So’._ Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t worry,” Richie says with venom. “I’m not going back.”

“Really? Ever, huh?”

“Ever.”

“Well. I’ll believe it when I see it, I guess.”

“Believe whatever the fuck you want.” Richie turns towards the hallway.

_“Hey!”_ His dad’s large hand is gripping hard around his arm and holding him there. 

Richie takes his time, scowling between the hand on his arm and his dad’s face. His scowl says all it needs to. His dad lets go, and wipes his sweaty palm on the denim of his jeans.

“Don’t use that word with me, Richie,” he says, instead of hitting him. “I swear to God.”

His father breathes sharp through his nose again and stares down at him. “You really go to the arcade today?”

“Yes,” Richie snaps.

“You lyin’ to me?”

“No,” Richie snaps again.

His dad swallows. His face twitches. He raises his chin; stares down at Richie over the bridge of his dumb nose. It reminds Richie of someone.

“You go to that Kaspbrak kid’s house today?”

“So what if I did?”

“Did you?”

_(“Dirty little boy—don’t think I won’t tell him—I’ve seen the way you look at my son—how well does he handle filth?”)_

_“No,”_ Richie bites. “His mom won’t let me.”

It’s simpler than, _“a clown broke his arm so he’s in Augusta,”._

His father nods; jaw tight and clenched. “Well. That’s smart of her.”

“The fuck does _that_ mean?”

_“Hey!_ Fuckin’_—Richie!”_

_“Well?_ What the hell does it mean?”

“It means I don’t like you hangin’ around with that kid so much!” his dad shouts. “Kid’s a fairy!”

(Richie, in the moment, ignores the last bit. He does not remember the day or the conversation until he is forty, but he never forgets the way his dad’s mouth formed that word.)

“Well, tough fuckin’ nuts! I don’t like you hanging around booze and women who aren’t Mom so much!”

He definitely saw the slap coming. 

If he’s being very honest, he was kinda egging it on on purpose. Just to see if he would.

Richie’s dad had only ever hit him once before this. And he never laid a finger on Sarah. But it was the knowledge that he _would,_ and _could_—not so much because he was some evil monster, like Mr. Marsh or Sonia Kaspbrak, but just because he drank too much. Something he could help, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. That was what made Richie hate his father so much. Richie’s existence had been marked by adults who made his life (and the lives of his friends) worse because of who they were. But his dad made his life worse because of who he wasn’t.

His dad used to be pretty okay, even. But then he lost his job, and stopped loving Mom. (Richie wonders, a lot, how his life might’ve been different if neither of those things had ever happened.)

“I don’t hit my kids, Richie,” his father gasps out, with eyes that are a little wet from either drunkenness or shock. “I don’t hit my kids.”

Richie bites his lip until it draws blood. He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

(For example, there are people, places, memories that—no matter how hard you try to rid yourself of them—shape you regardless. And some of it’s the worst stuff, too. The stuff you just wish you could wipe your brain of for good. Trauma that sticks with you. Leeches off you. And as the years go by and you get older, eventually, you let it. Just because you’re too fuckin’ tired to fight it any more.

Richie is the same age now that his father was that summer. The irony is not lost on him. Richie has never made it more than two weeks sober. He caves every time, and rolls back the clock on his chip for every AA meeting. He knows he could choose to be better. He knows he could make the effort. He just doesn’t want to.

Richie does not want kids. Not that it’s come up. 

Sarah has two. Richie thinks she is very brave.)

** now **

_“Get him up! Get him up! Richie, let’s go!”_

_“Fuck!”_

_“Let’s move! Come on!”_

** then **

(Other stuff, you lose completely. Most often, it’s the best bits—things it never even crossed your mind as a kid wouldn’t be there for you in a couple years’ time. The friends you had that you lost track of along the way; the things you used to dream about doing with your life; the person you thought you were. 

What you end up missing the most is the way life used to be _fun._ You miss the excitement and joy with which you did things. You miss the way colors used to seem brighter. You miss the way things used to be so simple; the way you didn’t care about shit that didn’t matter, and only cared about the things that did. You miss the way it felt to fall in love for the first time. 

The best parts of you—gone. In our eagerness to shed the layers of childhood in order to grow up faster than we ought to, we always shave off too much.)

Out of breath, Richie is scrambling up Bev’s fire escape. Beverly, in shock, removes her cigarette from her mouth and stands from where she is sat on the handrail.

“Is your dad home?” Richie asks, so quick that the words get jumbled together. Bev seems to hear him fine, though.

“No,” she says.

“Good. I need to borrow your boombox.”

“Uhh—okay?”

“Thank you, you’re the best!”

Richie is already waving at her as he climbs in through her open bedroom window. He sits himself down at her desk, and gets to work.

Out of his backpack, Richie pulls a box of cassette tapes, taken from the clubhouse. From his pocket, he pulls a single, blank one. _“Eds”_ is written in magic marker on one side.

Richie does not know when Eddie will listen to the mixtape he makes him. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever even give it to him. And that’s okay. It’s not really the point. 

The point is, he’s said it. He’s put the songs on the tape, and he can’t take them back. And if Eddie were to ever hear this, he would know. And there’s something very freeing in that.

** now **

_“Sir! Sir, I need you to step back!”_

_“Fuck you I need to step back, that’s—”_

_“Rich—"_

_“Richie, honey, you gotta let go. You gotta—you gotta let go.”_

_“You—you—”_

_“Take him, go, go, go!”_

** then **

(Richie’s had some time to think, though. And maybe Eds was right; that it’s not all bad. There’s still some hope in the knowledge that…well. Mike said it best.

Some things stay the same.)

He feels more than hears Bevvie stepping back in through her bedroom window. Richie is ejecting the finished tape from the deck. He holds it in both of his hands; looks down at it. That Bowie song, “Heroes”, finishes playing on Bev’s boombox; Bowie’s voice fading out, and out, and out.

He doesn’t know why he starts crying.

“Bev, I…I had to. I couldn’t see him. She wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t…She…”

There is a profound shudder of pity in Bev’s voice when she breathes:

_“Richie…”_

** now **

_“Richie,”_

“Richie, honey.” 

There is a gentle hand resting on his shoulder. Richie startles awake; wipes the crusted drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Hm? What? What’s up, what is it?”

He sniffles and looks up at Bev from his chair. Above him, her lips pull into something between a tight smile and a sympathetic frown.

“I hate to wake you, but you gotta eat. It’s been almost forty-eight hours, Richie. The nurses are talking. Said they’ll put you on a feeding tube soon if you don’t.”

Richie, still half asleep, sniffles again, pulls up his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sounds good, that’ll be fine.”

“Richie, _no.”_

He sets his glasses back into place and allows his eyes to come into focus. Across the room from him is the hospital bed—the one from which Eddie has not stirred since Richie, Ben and Mike had all three carried him in here—his blood soaking through all of their shirts. Bev had gone back to the town house and gotten them all a fresh change of clothes since then, but Richie could still feel the wet on his chest.

The ceiling light above Eddie’s bed’s been flickering every half-hour or so since Richie’s been in here, and it’s been pissing him off to all-hell. He mentioned it to the nurse, but all he got was a bitchy little shrug. Fuckin’ hospitals. Fuckin’ stark white-ass room—already just about the most depressing shit you’ve ever seen in your life—can’t even get the damn lights working right.

Outside the window over Richie’s shoulder, a crack of thunder has Bev’s eyes looking up, out into the dark and the pouring rain.

“Nasty out there,” she says, with thought.

Richie, slouched back in his chair, looks at Eddie, immobile and catatonic. Looks at how pale he is. Looks at him with the fucking breathing apparatus around his face. With shit stuck in him all up his arms, in a fucking hospital gown with uncomfortable-looking blankets pulled up to his waist. And Richie _hates._

Bev turns and looks between Richie and Eddie. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” she tells him. “But I know he’ll pull through. I just…I _know_ it.”

He breathes, and sighs.

“I’m sure he will, Bev,” Richie says, tired, and pats her hand on his shoulder. There is no conviction there. Beverly must know it.

Bevvie scooches her hip so she’s sitting on the chair’s wooden armrest, facing Eddie. Her hand on Richie’s shoulder moves to his back, and she hugs him from the side. Her head rests sideways on top of his. They breathe together, like one person. Richie pulls his lips between his teeth, biting down hard.

“It’s dead, Richie,” she says, joy seeping into her voice, because maybe it’s the first time she’s said it out loud. “It’s really dead. It’s over. Richie, it’s over.”

He knows.

He just doesn’t really believe it.

After many very long moments, Bev raises her head. She looks down at him.

“I’ll…I’ll go bring you something to eat, okay?”

Richie nods. He sniffles again. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Bev.”

She leans down and holds a kiss to the top of his head. She leaves after that.

He’s glad for Bev, and what’s more is he’s glad that Bev just gets it. He knows that it’s a 50/50 shot that Eddie’s even gonna wake up at all. But if there’s even the slimmest fucking _chance_ that Eddie could wake up and Richie not be there…Richie would _not_ have Eddie waking up in a fucking hospital, alone. He spent his entire fucking childhood trying and failing to protect Eddie from his own mother and the shit she would do to him in places like this. Eddie’s mom was dead. That clown was fucking dead. Neibolt House was in the ground. They all got what they deserved, as far as Richie was concerned. Eddie was not going to continue to suffer from the fucking poison they put in his veins. He just wasn’t.

Richie looks across the room. He stares at the space between them.

_(Why did you put that song on the tape. Why won’t you look at me. Please don’t do this. I love you. I hate you.)_

_(I love you.)_

_(I love you.)_

_(I **hate** you.)_

Richie leans forward; his head in his hands.

Somehow, he makes it to the bed. 

He kneels to Eddie’s right, in a way that he’s definitely gonna fuckin’ feel in his knees tomorrow. 

He searches for the answers in the bridge of Eddie’s nose, and in the hollow of his cheeks. 

“You know, I don’t really believe in all that shit, about how people can still hear you talk to ‘em while they’re in a coma.” Richie swallows. “I mean, sure, you hear stories, but I dunno it…seems pretty unlikely. However, I realize that I’m pretty dumb, and as it turns out, don’t really know much about shit, so I don’t even know what any of that’s worth.”

Richie coughs; realizes that he’s nervous. That his hands are shaking. Swears at himself in his head, because what fuckin’ dumbass would be nervous about talking to someone who can’t even hear ‘em? That’s…stupid. Anyway—

He coughs again.

“In, um. In case you…you can hear me though, I uh…And, well, even if you can’t, I guess, I…I guess I’ll sit here like a jackass and run my mouth off. Since you’re always trying to get me to shut up while you’re awake, I guess now since you can’t I—”

Very quickly—because if he doesn’t stop himself now, he’ll never fucking get through this thing—Richie stops himself from completely losing his shit in the middle of his sentence. He wipes his eyes; takes a strong breath in through his nose. 

“Since you can’t, I guess I’ll take advantage of the fuckin’ opportunity. Or, luck’ll be a lady and you’ll wind up waking up just ‘cause you can’t stand the sound of my voice anymore.”

Richie laughs out loud—to himself—which is just about the saddest thing he’s ever fucking done.

“Everyone’s here. They’re all fuckin’ tearin’ their hair out over you, y’know. It’s a regular soap opera out there. In here, too, I guess. I’m sure as hell not any better.” Richie runs a hand absently through his hair. “I think that Bevvie and Ben are finally mashing bits. So, that’s good news. I think Mike _needs_ to get laid if he knows what’s good for him. Living up in that dusty-ass clocktower alone for twenty-seven years, man, that’s not healthy. He’s gotta have a lotta pent up sexual frustration, y’know, a lotta…stress,” Richie trails off. “I don’t know. I’m not really mad at him anymore. I guess I was, y’know. I fucking _was_, but…maybe I get it, too. I dunno.”

Richie looks down at his hands. He frowns. 

“Tell you the truth, with all this remembering, y’know, the way things were…it’s hard to be mad at anyone. Or surprised, you know, that all of us turned out the way we did. Gives you a lotta fuckin’ perspective.” He swallows. “Too much, you might argue.” He sniffles._ “I _might argue.” 

“I’m a real wreck right now. I know it. I know I am. So you…you gotta wake up Eds, ‘cause I…”

This is it. This where he loses it. And there’s no coming back from it.

“’Cause I remember it,” Richie says through trembles of his lip and wet gasps. “I remember something I did—” He lets out a sob. “I did to you, and it’s my fault, and I’m so _fucking_ sorry. You don’t know how—or maybe you’ll _never_ know how—”

He remembers how Bev might be coming back soon, and he’s wiping at his nose and his eyes just to try to hide it; try to pull himself together just so he can fucking _speak._

“I didn’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you, ever, but I think that in doing that I…I may have hurt you the most, and to tell you the truth, Eds, I can’t…I can’t live with myself. Thinking how you…you _knew_, how you remembered all of it three fucking days ago and my dumb ass only—”

Richie is interrupted by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps which skid against the linoleum hospital floor and screech to a halt at the door.

He turns and looks, but it’s not Bev with food.

“Richie,” gasps Ben, eyes wide and big hands bracing against the door frame. He gulps. “It’s not good.”

Myra Kaspbrak—tacky cardigan, yoga pants, Kate Spade handbag and all—is standing in front of the reception desk. (And she’s doing that thing with her pointer finger that white women do when they’re _real_ pissed.)

Richie and Ben march down the hall towards her, but her voice rings out through the whole hospital.

“—and I wasn’t called _immediately?_ Can someone explain to me what the hell kind of hospital doesn’t call the spouse immediately?”

“Ma’am, your husband’s primary care doctor is out of state, so it was a few hours before we had contact information for next of kin—”

“My husband has been in a _coma_ for almost a day, and I only found out _this morning!”_

“I completely understand your frustration, Mrs. Kaspbrak, but again, I apologize—”

The nurse sees Richie and Ben fast approaching and her shoulders visibly relax, though her face, as she looks to them, remains apologetic.

Eddie’s wife starts looking between the nurse and the two of them, back and forth, like a bystander at a tennis match.

“Who is this? Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

Richie gestures to himself. “Well, I the hell am Richie Tozier, and this the hell is—”

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Ben interrupts, intelligently. “We’re friends of your husband’s.”

“Great,” she says, except it doesn’t sound very great. She turns back to the nurse; focuses the wrath of her angry pointer finger on Richie. “But you had their contact information? These people I’ve never even seen before?”

“No, ma’am, they, uh—”

“We brought Eddie in, ma’am,” Ben explains.

_“You brought him—”_ she chokes on her own words. “Well, what the _fuck_ happened to him?!”

Myra Kaspbrak places her hands over her mouth and gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I am not a potty mouth. I just—”

“Completely fucking understandable, ma’am, we all gotta let one slip once in a fucking while.”

Ben turns and has got his hand massaging deep tissue in his temples. “Richie, I’m begging you to stop,” he grumbles into Richie’s ear.

Myra’s mouth is sorta hung open. The woman looks to be a bit in shock, probably for a lot of reasons. 

That’s when Richie sees Bev come in through the ER’s sliding doors, arms full of plastic take-out bags and hair and clothes soaked, and watches her stop dead in her tracks as she’s faced with the scene at the front desk. Her eyes get real big. Looking between all of them, she gestures with her head towards Myra and mouths,_ “Is that—?”_

Richie and Ben both give equally wide-eyed nods.

“Mrs. Kaspbrak, the doctor’s going to fill you in on everything—”

“No, no, I don’t want him to fill me in, I want _these…_people,” she starts gesturing wildly with that finger again—and as an interesting side note—seems to be genuinely unsure as to whether or not Richie and Ben are, in fact, people. “to _fill me in,_ and explain to me why there’s a fucking hole—sorry, I did it again—a hole in my Eddie’s _chest!”_

“Well, there’s not a hole there anymore they, uh…sewed it…up…” Richie mimes the sewing of a chest cavity, as a visual aid.

“It was a freak accident, Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Ben starts. “We were poking around in this abandoned old house we used to hang out in as kids—you know, memory lane and all that. Well, that house was _not_ up to code, and—”

“You can say that again,” Richie mumbles.

“—and it was a piece of debris that got him, ma’am. It fell from the second story.”

“Oh God,” Mrs. Kaspbrak says, and nearly faints.

It was not a story that the doctor bought, which is more or less what they had expected. But it was the one they were gonna stick by. Richie thought it even kind of explained the whole Neibolt-House-being-swallowed-back-down-into-hell thing. Hey, maybe the beam of wood that fell down a story and stuck Eddie was loadbearing, and that’s what did it.

“A-and he went with you? Willingly? Into this…what, hundred-year-old, tetanus-ridden deathtrap? And you weren’t even looking after him, you weren’t—”

_“Hey,_ listen lady, I—” and Richie breaks out _his_ pointer finger.

“I’m sorry—I just honestly still don’t even understand who you are, or why my Eddie was with you in this…in this _town,_ or why you—”

“We’re childhood friends, we grew up here, it’s a, uh…long story,” Ben admits.

“Well,” Myra scoffs, clutching her handbag tighter. “He’s never said anything to me. I’ve never heard of you. And I don’t know how you can very well call him your _friend,_ when you’d let a thing like this happen on your watch, nearly _killing_ him—”

_“Whoa!”_ And that’s Bev, now moving from the door to join the conversation instead of just kicking back and enjoying the show like she had been. “Mrs. Kaspbrak, we all understand that you’re very upset right now, and you have a right to be, but throwing around blame isn’t going to help anything.”

“And who the hell are _you?”_ Myra asks, bewildered. But she doesn’t stop to wait for the answer. “I—I’m sorry, I’m going in to see my husband. And I’d like to speak to the doctor immediately.”

“Yes, right away, ma’am.” The nurse at the desk nods. Myra starts her brisk walk down the hall. The three of them follow in tow.

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Bev starts, plastic bags swinging as she walks. “You need to understand that—”

Myra spins on a dime. “And _you_ can leave. As far as I’m concerned, you people have done _enough.”_

Bev, Ben and Richie remain planted in shock as Mrs. Kaspbrak keeps walking. Richie is running it back in his head—what she said. And in her voice, he hears something else.

_(**You. **He doesn’t want to see **you.** He’s sick. In Augusta. The doctors there are more attentive. It’s a cold. A bad cold. How well does he tolerate filth?)_

“N-no—” Richie is saying before he can stop himself. “No, you—”

Richie has lurched forward and Ben is holding him back, hooking his big arms under each of his shoulders. Bev’s hand reaches out to touch his.

“No—let me go, let me _go—_she can’t—I won’t let her—_no!”_

“Richie,”

“Richie, honey, there’s nothing we can do—”

“Richie, you gotta stop, you can’t—”

“No, _fuck you,_ man! Stop—" 

By some miracle, Richie breaks free. He’s sprinting down the hall after her and can’t even hear Ben and Bev calling out behind him. 

Mrs. Kaspbrak hears his approach, stops and spins around, aghast.

“I told you already to—”

“You have to let me see him,” and Richie’s out of breath, ‘cause, y’know, alcoholism. It’s a killer. “You have to. You don’t understand.”

“I think I _do.”_

“No, you fuckin’ don’t, lady.”

Myra gasps.

“You don’t. You—you don’t get it, alright, he hates hospitals. He hates ‘em. Ever since he was a kid. If he wakes up and I’m not there, he’s gonna have a fuckin’ panic attack, alright? His mom was a roaring bitch, and did stuff to him that fucked him up real bad, and now he’s scarred for life ‘cause of—”

“Sonia Kaspbrak was a lovely woman, and our family is still _suffering_ from that loss, so you’d take care to—”

“Oh, that’s what he told you? He didn’t tell you she had a bad case of the Munchausen’s and took her son out of school for weeks and told everyone he was anemic just because he went to bed one time without eating his fuckin’ vegetables? He ever mention that?”

“No, he—”

“No, maybe he didn’t, because I’m the only fuckin’ person in his life who knows that or ever gave a shit enough to ask, so why don’t you do your husband a favor and let me stay here until he wakes up, huh?”

Mrs. Kaspbrak swallows, and regards Richie long and careful.

“Leave,” she says. “Or I will call security.”

Richie’s blood is set to boil, but Mrs. Kaspbrak is already gone. She’s turned into Eddie’s room. The sound of the door shutting behind her is an echo in Richie’s head, and it sounds like the closing of a book. A period at the end of a long, confusing, and painful sentence. A laugh at the end of a joke that just wasn’t fucking funny.

(Of course, there’s a different kind of grief. The loss of something that you never even really had. When there’s hope for just a second that maybe—possibly—you’re not too far gone. That you can get back even a sliver of what you lost of your childhood—of what you can faintly remember your life used to be like, back when you felt real emotions and took full breaths and took it for granted that it would all last forever.

When even that gets ripped away, Richie has to wonder what’s left. 

It’s what he thinks about after he eventually turns and starts his slow walk back down the hallway, counting the tiles on the floor. 

But even that feeling isn’t as hopeless or as horrible as the knowledge that Richie has never been able to protect Eddie from anything—not even this.)

Bevvie waits for him at the end of the hall.

She watches with big, sad, blue eyes as he walks towards her. Richie counts every one of the freckles on her face, just to stop the tears from coming.

If he did cry, he would lay his head on her shoulder, and she would pet his hair, and whisper soothing words. Would tell him that it’s alright, that it’s gonna be okay—even though it’s not. None of it is. The clown is dead, but Bevvie was wrong, none of it’s over. There was never any escaping it. Not for him. Not ever.

“Richie, I…” she starts, but she knows—as he does—that there are no words.

“I got you food,” she says instead after Richie does nothing but stand there and stare back. She picks up one heavy plastic bag at her side and waves it at him. Then, she winces. “I’m sorry. The only thing nearby was Chinese.”

Richie nods tightly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Thank you.”

“Mike found us a new hotel. We’ll take it back there. Sound good?”

“Y-yeah,” Richie manages. “Yeah, that’s fine.” It is not. It’s not fine. None of it is fucking fine.

Bev frowns. “Maybe a cup of coffee would be good, too. I think I saw a machine in the lobby. Come on, let’s go get you one.”

She takes him arm-in-arm to walk down the left wing and make a right into the waiting area. There, Ben leans against a pillar with his arms crossed in front of him, looking like he’s taking it all awful hard. Not worse than Bill, though, who sits across the room hunched over in a chair, clutching at a cup of coffee and looking just about shell-shocked. Mike’s hand is rubbing at his back.

“Richie, hey, man,” Ben stands up straight and places a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “I wish I coulda given you more warning, I’m real sorry. But I turned the corner and there she was, y’know? I shoulda bought you more time, but I—”

“Ben, it’s alright, buddy,” Richie tries to reassure him. 

Bill is shaking now, and doesn’t even seem to notice Richie’s presence. Richie frowns.

“What’s up with Bill?” he asks.

Another bout of thunder wracks and shakes the building. Richie can hear the sound of the downpour crashing against the roof above them.

Bev sighs. “He hates storms.”

** then **

The first time all seven of them are together at the quarry is the first time Richie, when he looks at Eddie, has the thought—the first clear, coherent thought—that he is in trouble.

And it scares him worse than the clown. 

But beneath the fear—beneath the horrible way his gut churns when he sits on the rock and watches Eddie splashing shirtless in the water and _feels_ something that’s both brand new and yet so very familiar—is something very good. Something Richie wants, but is scared to want. And that’s what is all so damn irritating.

(After the hospital and the hotel, after the storm has passed, they return to the quarry. This time, without Eddie. Richie remembers how he felt that day, and he begins to understand the root of all his fear, and the horrible paradox of it all.)

“What are you afraid of, Rich?” Mike will ask later, after the quarry.

“Clowns,” Richie will answer, even though the answer is Eddie. Eddie, and everything to do with Eddie. His smile, his frown, and the way that everyone would hate him if they knew Richie was looking. The way Eddie would hate him if he ever caught him. Richie is terrified of Eddie. There is nothing else that even compares.

(In the lake when he is forty, for the first time, he allows himself to cry in front of his friends. He does not pretend they do not know why.

They do not hate him. They don't. Not at all.

They hold onto him. And they take the pain together.)

** now **

Hours pass. Richie re-carves the letters into the kissing bridge. This time, unafraid.

Days pass. Eddie wakes up. The Losers do not find out that he is awake—or even alive—until he is back home in New York, with his wife. It comes as a one-sentence text message, with a period at the end.

Weeks pass. Stan’s funeral is on a Saturday. 

Stanley’s wife is a wreck, and Richie only wishes that he could do more for her. But he couldn’t even bake her a casserole, or some shit like that. He was pretty God-awful at cooking. He expresses this to Mike, who pats him on the back and says, _“Then you’re doing her a favor anyway.”_

Of course, when they had mentioned it first at the visitation that they were childhood friends of Stanley’s, Patty Uris had blinked and returned a blank stare. That much was getting to be fairly routine. It had not been until later, while Richie was talking to Bill on the couch, and Patty had overheard, that something changed.

“Bill?” she had turned her head and asked. “I’m sorry, that wouldn’t be…Bill Denbrough, would it?”

Bill looks up with tired eyes. “Uh, y-yes, actually. Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “I, um…I have something for you. Hold on, let me go grab it.”

When she returns, her eyes are glossy. She says nothing, and hands Bill the envelope. Then, she walks away.

Bill reads the letter in silence. When he is done, he stands wordlessly, hiding his eyes as he leaves for the bathroom. But he hands off the letter to Richie before he does.

When Richie is finished reading it, his first thought is a numb, nagging kind of anger. At Stanley, for thinking he was weak; that he wasn’t brave. Especially when Richie knew better—and could have told him so, and might have prevented—

But there just wasn’t any point in thinking that way now. 

His second thought is nothing more than a reminder that Stan was the best of them. That he had been wise as a forty-year-old at ten, and wise as a hundred-year-old at forty. That Richie had always known that about him, even if Stan never did. That Stan had saved his life, in more ways than one, just as he was saving it now.

His third and final thought is_, boy, Stan really did like Bill a whole lot._

Eddie does not make it to the visitation. He makes it to the funeral.

He isn’t with his wife, but he doesn’t stand with the Losers, either. At the cemetery, he stands off to the side as the body is lowered. Richie tries not to look at him all the time, but fails.

He looks better than he did while he was lying in that coma, but that’s not saying much. The scar on his cheek had healed, at least, but he doesn’t look like himself, and he looks distant, and desperately skinny. Richie doesn’t want to sound like it was all he’d been thinking about (it was), but back in Derry, Eddie had had some muscle, at least. He’d always been tiny, but he’d had strong arms and well-defined pecs and leg muscles, and an _ass_ that—(it was definitely all he’d been thinking about.)

Anyway, now, he’s swimming in his black funeral coat, and his eyes are a little too dark and his cheeks are a little too hollow. 

Maybe he still has the ass, though—Richie can’t tell since he’s not turning around.

Richie pulls his attention back to Patty Uris throwing dirt on the casket. _Sorry, Stan. You know how it is._

When it’s all over, and Stanley has been committed to the ground, the gathered begin the slow walk back to their cars. Eddie doesn’t move, so neither does Richie. 

Ben, who stood next to him, is patting Richie’s arm in solidarity as he turns to go—but not before he gives a quick glance between Richie and where Richie’s looking. He nods once, then leaves without saying anything.

It’s just the two of them, now. And Stan.

The grass crunches beneath Richie’s feet as he takes the long steps.

“Eddie,” he starts once he’s near enough to him.

“Richie,” comes the curt response.

“Eddie, you…” Richie looks him up and down, making a show as if he hadn’t spent the last thirty minutes memorizing every inch of him. “You look…good, you look…better.”

“I’m alive, is what you mean,” says Eddie, dryly.

“Yeah,” Richie nods. “Yeah, I do mean that. It was…when I…when I saw you last, you were—”

“Dying.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you were fuckin’ dying. Looked for a while there like we might be here for you instead of Stan.”

Eddie nods; glances down at his folded hands.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment.

Eddie isn’t meeting his eyes. 

There’s nothing Richie wants more than to hug him right now. To feel him, alive. His body is practically screaming for it. But it wouldn’t be right. Because Eddie hates him. And he has every right in the world to hate him.

Quieter, Richie says: “Eddie, she wouldn’t let us stay.”

“I know what she did, Richie.”

“I told her. I told her I needed to fuckin’ be there when you—” Richie stops himself. Swallows; looks down at his feet. “Unless you didn’t want me there, I guess. Then…maybe it’s for the best. I dunno.”

Eddie does look at him now. Richie can’t tell what his face is saying.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks.

“I’m…” Eddie looks off in the distance again. “I’ll be fine, Richie. Yeah.”

Richie knows that means _no. No, but I don’t feel like I can tell you that. No, but you don’t need to worry about it._ It’s bullshit, and he hates it.

But there’s nothing he can really say.

“Do you need…time? What…what do you need?” Richie asks.

Eddie looks at him again. 

“I wish you would fucking get it, Richie.”

Eddie leaves. Gets into his car and drives away, back to New York.

Richie says goodbye to Stan. Then, he leaves, too.

Richie tries to take the hit. Take the knowledge that that’s _it;_ that’s all he and Eddie will ever do any more. Maybe run into each other at reunions and share a few, short words that are laced with bitterness. He accepts this. Feels he deserves it, even. But he hates it, and a lot of the time, if he lets himself think about it for more than a second, it makes him wish he were dead.

Months pass.

Eddie is M.I.A.

Bill finishes his movie; writes another book; divorces his wife, amicably.

Eddie sends one text to the group chat: _“New book is great! Happy for you.”_

Mike leaves Derry; moves to Florida; vacations in South America.

Eddie responds to the pictures from his trip with a smiley face.

Ben moves in with Beverly; gets a dog; quits drinking. 

Eddie thinks the dog is cute.

Bev goes to court for her divorce. It is ugly. She doesn’t get everything she wanted, but she’s free.

Eddie sends his love and support.

Richie writes his next Netflix special himself. It is the hardest thing he has ever done. The live show is tonight.

Eddie can’t come.

Bev stands in front of him, straightening his bowtie in the dressing room mirror. 

“How do I look?” he asks. Then, pouting his lips at her: “Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me. I’d—"

Bevvie grabs him by the chin and pushes his face away. _“Enough.”_

She stands behind him, brushing the shoulders of his suit jacket and smiling warmly.

“You look great. Like a million bucks. How do you feel?”

“Bev, I might throw up.” It’s not a joke. He’ll have a panic attack. He knows it. Today is going to be the worst day of his life.

“You’re not gonna throw up. There’s nothing left in your stomach; you threw it all up this morning.”

That is also true.

“Richie,” she says softer, calling him away from wherever his mind has wandered to. “You know he’d be here if he could.”

He nods, but Richie knows the truth.

Bevvie kisses his cheek. “Go knock ‘em dead.”

Run-DMC’s cover of “Walk This Way” plays him out, per special request. The stage lights are spinning, and the auditorium is completely full of people who are surely cheering for someone else. His manager had told him they’d sold out early, but it’s different when Richie sees it for himself. It feels good, considering the untimely end of his last tour, but also has his brain screaming the words _PANIC ATTACK_ at him over and over and over again until they don’t even sound like real words anymore. 

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I’m Richie Tozier, and if you came here because you thought I was dead, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are exits to your left and right. No refunds. I’m kidding, we give refunds, just not for those people. We pretty much only give refunds out in the extremely unlikely event that I forget a joke or puke on the stage and have to cancel the rest of the tour—but don’t worry, it’s never happened before. Oh, hey, look! You guys are laughing! See, that’s great. I know my material, there’s no vomit. This is all going disturbingly well. This must have been how they felt on the Titanic.”

“Tell you the truth, I had a little bit of a personal crisis. But it’s fine! It’s all okay now, my best friend’s a woman. Yeah. Yeah, I know, that helps a lot. She got me in to see her therapist, and helped me start dressing better; eating better. Not that dudes can’t be great friends, but I have some guy friends who knew I was having this mid-life crisis, and the most they had the emotional capacity to offer me was like, their shitty pull-out couch and, like, free beer from their fridge, if I needed it. By the way, I’m an alcoholic, which they also know about, so. If that tells you anything. No offense, Bill, I know you mean well.”

“Now it’s time for that obligatory part of the night where I stand up here and talk a lot about sex, so that you all can go home and feel a lot better about your own sex lives. Yeah, I know the service I provide. _My husband hasn’t given me an orgasm in eight years, but at least I’m not that sad, old fuck who threw up on a girl he was fucking in the bathroom of a Texaco._ True story, by the way. Shout out to Texaco. No affiliation. They’re not sponsoring me. For obvious…reasons.” 

“Yeah, that girl never called me back. Shame, too. We were a regular Romeo and Juliet. You’ll never understand the desperation of being single at forty until your friends start trying to set you up on dates. It’s so fucking sad. Because it’s not like it is now, for all you young people out there, where you get friends pointing out people who they think have, you know, complementary personalities to you, or like, share your interests, and hope you’ll hit it off. No—it’s like, _“Here’s the only other sad fuck I know who’s forty and single. Figure it out.”_ And if you don’t have sex by the end of the night, it’s considered a failure, and you’re gonna die alone. So that’s what you have to look forward to, if you’re ugly. Good luck.”

“Except recently there’s hope, I think, since I’ve expanded my dating pool a little bit. Yeah, I’m now actually very open to dating twenty-year-old’s. I think that could really make the difference. Hey, it works for DiCaprio. No, actually, I hate twenty-year-old’s. They piss me off. The truth is, is I, uh…I like men.”

There’s no time for the vomit to even start to come up. There’s no time for the thoughts to consume him—for those floorboards to creak. 

Instead, there’s cheering. A lot of it.

“I do,” he says, smiling with teeth. “Yeah, I do. I like men. I like women, too—I like ‘em a lot, don’t get me wrong, I’ve just been really into penis lately. I’d make a cheap joke there and say _it’s been really into me_, but me being bisexual has actually so far done nothing in the way of me being unfuckable, so if you’re considering making the switch just to get in a little extra action, I wouldn’t recommend it. Zero out of ten.”

“And I’m glad you’re all cheering, because I gotta be honest, I had _no_ backup plan for if that bomb got met with silence—I had _nothing!_ I probably woulda just been like, _‘I like cock! Goodnight!’ _and then left, because _fuck! _But thank you, thank you, that’s very nice. My manager _really_ didn’t want me to start the set with that, in case you didn’t cheer, but honestly, getting that off my chest in the first five minutes probably saved you guys from the vomit thing again. That’s just what I do when I’m nervous now, I vomit. Like, projectile. It’s gross. Look, it’s part of getting old, your digestive system decides it’s time for you to die at least twenty years before the rest of your body does. Anyway, but now that we’re all here and we’re all on the same page with my sexuality, I can spend the rest of the show making gay jokes! And the best part is, you don’t have to feel weird anymore when I do it! And if you don’t laugh, remember, it’s a hate crime.”

When the show is over, Richie finds himself, for the first time in too long, smiling as he walks off the stage. His manager is cheering him. The stage crew is applauding. Backstage in the dressing room where his friends are waiting, Bill is the first to pull him in for a long, warm hug. It’s maybe the best hug he’s ever gotten. 

_“I knew you could do it, buddy.”_

_“Richie, I’m so proud of you.”_

_“Congratulations, Richie.”_

_“Richie, he came.”_

“What?”

Bev is nudging him, nodding her head towards the door and back down the hall.

“He stepped outside.” 

Richie sprints out the back door that opens out into the alleyway. Eddie is leaning up against a brick wall, hands in his pockets, staring down at his shoes.

Richie catches his breath; lets the door close behind him. Eddie knows he’s there. Richie takes the time that neither of them are speaking to each other to figure out what the hell it is he even wants to say.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he decides on. Maybe it comes out meaner than he’d intended.

“Yeah, I had plans. Work shit. I canceled it,” Eddie answers immediately. “Figured I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t here for…for this. I’m the one who fuckin’ told you to write your own stuff, so I’d be a real asshole if I…if you did this and I wasn’t here.”

“Yeah, you would be,” Richie lets it go, holding no punches. He’s realizing he’s angry only as he says the words.

Eddie looks at him. He nods. His eyes look sad, and tired.

“You were great.”

“You know if you thought it was awful you can say that, right, you don’t need—”

“I thought it was great.” Richie can’t tell, but he might mean it.

“Oh. Okay.”

Silence.

Richie knew it would come to this. He always did. He regrets it as much as a person could regret anything, but he knows why he did what he did the day he left Derry. He knows it for certain. Because if he hadn’t, it would have been _this._ This…nothing. This empty void between them. This look of confusion bordering on betrayal in Eddie’s eyes that says, _“You lied to me,”_. Eyes that say—

“Richie, you’re so brave.”

…

Huh.

“You…you…”

“I mean that. I want you to know that I mean that.”

Richie’s brain is still connecting the circuits. It’s gonna take a while.

“I’m happy. I’m really happy for you,” Eddie is saying—he thinks.

“Thank…thank…you.” It might have come out as a question. Richie doesn’t know if he has motor function back yet.

Eddie looks down at the ground again.

Richie watches him. Watches the way the light from the street puts a halo around him. There’s a warm feeling that creeps its way into Richie’s heart, and decides to live there.

“Eddie, hey, uh…we’re gonna go get drinks—Ben’s gonna get like a soda-pop or an apple juice or whatever the fuck, so if you—”

“I can’t, uh. I can’t do that.”

“Wh—what? Why n—”

“I can’t. I have to get back.”

“Oh. Well, uh…”

“I…” Eddie starts, with hesitation. “I’m sorry. I am. But…you guys go have fun. You deserve it.”

The strangest thing happens then. Richie is quiet, and only just noticing the distance between them. Noticing how large it is, and how much he hates it. That’s when Eddie, hands stuffed in his back pockets, chooses to close it. He walks up in front of Richie. Eddie looks up at him—uncertainty wracking his face. He rocks up onto his tiptoes, and he presses his lips to Richie’s left cheek. It’s warm, and it feels like the twenty-seven-year-old memory of Eddie’s mouth rocking desperately against his. It feels like biting and licking and his hand on his cock. Rubbing, crying, aching, and _“I love you,”_. Eddie’s soft, shuddery breath hits his face when he pulls away—almost as if he could be remembering it, too.

Richie watches him—paralyzed—as Eddie settles back on his heels. Eddie wets his lips with his tongue, takes a deep breath in, and heads inside through the backstage door.

Months pass.

More silence.

** then **

“C’mon, Stanley! _Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”_

“Yeah! Woo!”

In the clubhouse, Bev has brought them a whole case of Budweiser. She has a fake ID and says the man behind the counter at the liquor store thinks she’s pretty enough to be twenty-one. Stanley finishes his bottle and wipes his mouth, face screwed up into an awful frown.

“That’s disgusting,” he says. 

“Aw, c-c-c’mon, Stan, it’s Budweiser! Th-the King of Beers!” Bill cajoles.

Stan folds instantly. “I guess it’s not…_that_ bad.”

“There we go!” cheers Bill.

“Richie, your turn!” Bev says with a smile. “You should shotgun it! C’mon, I’ll do it with you.”

Bev is already grabbing two cans of beer and asking around for a pocketknife. Richie pulls his from his jeans. (It isn’t his. It’s his dad’s. He will keep it for as long as his dad doesn’t miss it. It feels good to keep it with him. He likes the weight of it. It reminds him of what he did. That at any point, someone could walk by the bridge, and see the letters that he carved, and not know who it was, or what it meant, but they’d see _R + E_, and it would be real.)

“Richie, don’t,” Eddie is saying, with zero expectation on his face that Richie will actually listen to him. 

“What’s the matter, Eds? Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little beer,” says Richie as he flips open the knife.

Eddie narrows his eyes. “I’m not scared of beer at all. You’re gonna fucking cut your hand off.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Fuck you, watch me!” Richie says as he takes the can from Bev. He sticks the can with the knife, slides the knife down a little, and immediately slices his thumb. “Ow! Shit!”

“You’re a moron,” Eddie says, but is already searching his fanny pack for a band-aid. 

“Richie, quick! Pop the tab!” Bev tells him, and Richie does so. Then, looking at each other, he and Bev both place their mouths at the bottom of their respective cans and tilt their heads back while their friends cheer.

** now **

“This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t have come.”

“Bev, I’m only here because _you_ made me.”

“I know. I know. I’m having second thoughts.”

It’s a community center in the heart of L.A.. Inside one of the rec rooms, a small handful of people are already gathered, milling about in small groups or hanging by the concessions table lining the wall. Richie goes there first. Bev follows, hugging her purse a little tighter and biting at her lip.

“Oh, look, cookies.”

“Richie, we should go. We should—”

“Hi there, Richie!” John, the group leader, has approached them with a dumb, big ass smile on his face. “Always good to have you back. I see you brought a friend this time.”

“Hi,” Bev says, with a smile that says _please kill me._

“Oh, don’t be nervous,” John tells her. “Newcomers are always welcome here.”

“Nah, she’s not nervous,” Richie supplies. “It’s just constipation. Yeah, Bev’s got IBS.”

Bev shoots him a fucking_ look._

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” he continues. “So, like, if it turns out we just have to like, get up and leave in the middle of the meeting, just don’t take it personally.”

“Oh,” Bev says, getting it. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s been known to happen.”

“Ah, well,” starts John. “Let’s, uh…hope you feel better, then.

“Yeah,” Bev answers with a horrible, nervous laugh. John leaves them be.

“This concession line-up fuckin’ sucks,” Richie says once he’s gone. “There isn’t even any booze here.”

Later, they sit in that stupid fucking circle. They go around the room. Richie stands. He gives a little wave.

“Hi, my name’s Richie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

_“Hi, Richie.”_ He really has to force himself not to laugh. 

He sits. Bevvie stands.

“Uh, hi. I’m Beverly, and I am…also an alcoholic.”

_“Hi, Beverly.”_

“Hi, Beverly,” Richie whispers in her ear when she sits down, like the fucking twins from _The Shining_. Bev flips him the bird.

They make it through the whole thing without Bev’s made-up IBS giving her the shits, which honestly shocks the fuck out of him. They’re still laughing as Bev is pushing the key into the lock on the front door of her and Ben’s apartment.

“Did you—no, did you see the look on his face, when I talked about—fuck,” Bevvie pushes open the door and turns on the lights, and is still breaking out into laughter. “When I talked about that bender I was on once where—where—”

“Dancing naked on your fuckin’ roof to the Beastie—”

_“Beastie Boys!_ Yes! 

“When you were fifteen—”

“—Yes,_ God!_ And my aunt called the cops; she thought an animal was on the roof!”

“I don’t know why they don’t expect you to share that kinda shit,” Richie says, tossing his phone and keys on the counter and heading to collapse on the couch. “Like all the stories are so fuckin’ sad. Bums me out—it’s why I hate going. It’s depressing as shit.”

Bev grabs herself a bottle of water from the fridge.

“If they’d lighten up a little,” she says, “I could dig it.”

Bev makes her way to the couch too, and sits next to him.

“Yeah, it, uh…wasn’t all that fuckin’ bad tonight,” Richie admits. “With you there.”

Bev stops twisting the cap off her water, and looks at him. 

“I have a crazy idea,” she says.

“Yyeeahh?” 

“We should go back next week.”

“Beverly, you’re killing me.”

“No, I think we should! Come on, maybe it’s not fun for the first coupla weeks, but once we get going?”

“I don’t know, Bev—”

“Richie, I think it could be really good for us. We’ll force ourselves to do it, and we’ll do it together.”

Richie sits there and pouts for a minute; brow furrowed and lips pulled into a decisive frown.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

Beverly claps her hands together silently but giddily. “Yay!”

“What the fuck am I supposed to drink now? Capri Sun?”

Bev looks down at her water bottle. She looks back at Richie. She pulls a glass from the coffee table, and pours him some.

“Cheers,” she says.

He picks up the glass and nods back at her, then downs the hatch. 

Beverly slams her water bottle back down on the coffee table, like it was a really strong chaser.

_“I _think this calls for a celebration,” she says, and stands up.

“Uh, Bev, I think the point of going sober is actually to _not _drink alcohol.”

Bev turns back to him with a coy-ass look on her face. “I know.”

She moves to their sound system. Bev plugs in her phone, searching for something, then hits play. She cranks up the volume.

_“Oh!_ Beverly _Marsh!”_ Richie shouts over the sound.

Beverly is already slinking off her jacket; throwing it over her shoulder. She grabs a pair of sunglasses off the coffee table and wears them down the bridge of her nose. She starts strutting around the living room.

_“Some boys kiss me—some boys hug me, I think they’re okay-ay! If they don’t give me proper credit—”_

_“I JUST WALK AWAY-AY!”_ Richie screams, and Bevvie nearly loses it.

_“They can beg and they can plead but they can’t see the light!” _

_“(That’s right!)”_

Bev is doing some sultry-ass dance, standing up on the couch as she sings along—poorly, but decidedly better than Richie.

_“’Cause the boy with the cold, hard cash is—”_

_“ALWAYS MISTER RIGH-IGHT!”_ They scream it together this time as Richie gets up on top of the coffee table.

They start jumping up and down with the chorus—Richie is tearing off his shirt and swinging it around his head; Bev is screaming and laughing in delight. 

Other things happen. Richie at one point gets his wallet and starts throwing cash at her. Bev eventually finds Richie a purple, fluffy boa from her room and flings it at him. The living room looks about like a tornado fuckin’ hit it by the time Ben walks in through the front door. 

Bev rushes over and turns down the music.

“Hi, Ben!” she beams.

“Yeah, hi, Ben!” Richie waves.

Ben, with a look that says he completely and utterly has no understanding of what he is seeing, sets his bag of groceries down on the counter.

“Are you two drunk?”

“No!” Richie exclaims. “No—isn’t it great?”

“Uhh…” Ben starts. “Then I don’t get it. Should I be worried? You stepping out on me already?”

Bev and Richie look between the two of them, noticing their state of undress and, well, all of it. 

“Wh—oh!” realizes Bev. She laughs. “No! No, don’t worry, God, I am not cheating on you with R—with Rich—with—”

Bevvie cannot even say it without laughing her ass off. 

** then **

“You can do it, Richie. Richie, you can do it. Just hold on to me.” Sarah is leading him out onto the roller rink, step by slow step.

(Richie is seven. It is the earliest memory he has of his childhood. It is probably the earliest memory he has of anything.)

“W-wait! Sarah, don’ let go—”

“I’m not, I’m not gonna let go, okay? You got it. Come on.”

Richie does his best to balance on two feet. (A Springsteen song plays at the rink. He doesn’t know that then, of course, but he remembers it later.)

“Hey, look! You’re doing it! You’re doing it, killer! Look at you!”

Sarah laughs, and smiles bright as she skates backwards. She doesn’t let go until Richie is smiling, too.

** now **

_“I just wanted to call you, and tell you that I was proud of you. Richie, I’m so proud of you. You were amazing, Richie, you really were. You should be so proud. Are you proud? Are you happy?”_

Richie is sitting in his car. He is leaning forward; his forehead resting against the steering wheel. He’s holding his phone to his ear.

“Yeah,” he sniffles. “Yeah, Sarah, I’m…I’m happy. I’m proud. I’m really…I’m really glad I did that.”

_“Good. I’m so happy for you, Richie. Are you good? You sound…”_

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m doing really good, actually. I am. Really. Hey, Sarah, uh—”

_“Yeah, Richie? What’s up?”_

“Did you…did you know? Growing up, or…Did you…did you know?”

_“Uh…yeah. Yeah, a little. I think so.”_

“Oh. Okay.”

_“I’m so happy for you, killer. You know that, don’t you?”_

“Yeah,” Richie’s lip is trembling. His face twitches, to try and stop the tears. “Yeah, Sarah. Thanks. I, uh…Hey, do you think I could, um, come by some time soon, you know, stay, maybe for a few days, or…”

_“Yes! Richie, we’d love to have you! Whenever you’re free for a little while, let me know, okay? We have a guest bedroom—I’ll have it all set up and ready for you.”_

“Okay. Thank you.”

_“I’ll let you go. I love you, Richie. Take care of yourself, okay?”_

“Yeah. Yeah. I love you too, Sarah.”

Richie hangs up and sits up in his car. He finds the lint roller in the glove compartment; brushes himself off real quick. He gets out and straightens himself out. Shakes his head a couple of times, just to get a little bit of the adrenaline out of his system, and to snap himself out of his talk on the phone with Sarah. He locks his car up and starts making his way over to the park.

Ben and Beverly had wanted a small ceremony. And they had wanted Richie to, well. To be the Maid of Honor. (Bev said he could say _Man of Honor_ if he really wanted, but he had vehemently refused. Just didn’t have the same ring.)

Unfortunately, Richie didn’t really understand when he was accepting the job that that meant basically planning the whole fucking thing. Thank God it was a small thing, ‘cause Richie didn’t even wanna fuckin’_ know_ what planning seating arrangements for a big ceremony looked like. 

It wasn’t_ all_ him, obviously. He basically split the work with Ben and Bev (and to some extent Mike, who was Best Man), but he felt just as busy. If it _were_ all up to him, for example, he’d have sat himself on one side of the room, and Eddie in a separate country entirely. It wasn’t, and all the Losers were sitting at one table. Together.

Bev and Ben had not wanted to invite Myra after the ordeal at the hospital, but agreed that they probably had to. Eddie had responded to the invitation a few days later, saying he would be there. Myra, on the other hand…

_(“Eddie just texted me,” says Bev._

_“Yeah? What the hell did he say?”_

_Bev holds a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God.”_

_“She’s not coming,” she says._

_Richie and Ben stand motionless._

_“She’s not coming!” Bev repeats._

_“Are you serious?”_

_Bevvie nods vigorously, smile as big as her face. “Look! Look! Look at the text!”_

_“Hahaha! This is the greatest day of my life!”_

_Ben runs to the fridge and starts pointing at one of the drawers. “Richie! Richie, hand me the bottle opener, I brought home sparkling grape juice!”)_

There was one request of Richie’s that had made it through, though. At their table, they would leave one reserved but empty chair. For Stan.

Before he makes his way to the ceremony, Richie darts into the clubhouse to check on Bev. She’s got an actual, female bridesmaid helping her get ready in a private room—and while she and Richie both know he can’t really help her with that, he ought to be there for basic moral support.

_“Yo bitch_, you good?” he shouts as he enters.

“Richie, it’s my wedding day, can you please at least refer to me as Mrs. Bitch?” she calls out over the folding screen.

“Alright, Mrs. Bitch, if you don’t need anything, I’m gonna go greet the masses.”

“Yeah, we’re good! Thanks, Richie!”

“Alright, even though I can’t see you, I’m sure you look beautiful. Unless you look hideous, in which case, we can always reschedule.”

Bev gives him a thumbs up over the screen. Richie returns it, and heads out. 

“Richie!” Ben calls to him outside. “Hey, Richie, you seen Mike?”

“Just got here, buddy.”

“Jesus Christ, where the hell is he? We’ve got thirty minutes.”

“Hey, maybe he slept in.”

Ben gives him a look of sheer panic. Richie slaps his arm.

“I’m _kidding_. I’m sure he’s on his way. Call him, if you’re so worried.”

“I tried; he’s not picking up. I’ll, uh…I’ll run around some more, I guess. See if I can find him.”

“Good idea, buddy. If I see him, I’ll holler.”

He and Ben split in opposite directions. 

Richie makes his way to stand in front of all the chairs set up in the park clearing, and as soon as people start arriving, has to do the whole _“bride or groom”_ thing.

That job is quickly more difficult than he had anticipated.

“Hello there, bride or groom?” But the words catch in his throat.

Eddie looks at him deadpanned. “Gee, I’m not sure. Bev’s real nice but I think Ben loaned me five dollars for lunch money once.”

“So.” Richie coughs. “Groom, then.”

“Where are Bill and Mike sitting?”

“I’ll tell you what—if you find them, you can ask ‘em. It’s like a regular _Where’s Waldo?_ today.”

“They’re not here? But Mike’s Best Man.”

“Eddie, really, this news is all very ten minutes ago.”

That’s when Bill’s hand pops out of nowhere and claps Eddie on the shoulder. Mike stands behind him, adjusting his tie.

“There he is, h-hey Eddie!”

“Michael, what the hell?” Richie asks. “Dude, Ben’s aged about ten years ‘cause of you.”

Mike swallows kinda stiff. “Yeah, sorry, I, uh—got a little—”

Ben walks out of the clubhouse behind them, looking a little pale.

“Look, just go take care of him, alright? Man looks like he’s gonna faint.”

“Yeah—uh, right. Got it.”

The ceremony goes smoothly after they get all their obligatory wedding day crises out of the way. Mike doesn’t forget the rings, Ben doesn’t forget his vows, and Bev doesn’t leave him at the altar (which was a little bit of a disappointment, because if she had ended up doing the whole runaway bride thing, Bev had given him verbal permission saying he was allowed to fuck Ben in her absence.).

Richie sits with Bill and Mike in-between him and Eddie. It’s a strategic move. And he only sneaks a glance at him like, once or twice. Or three. Three times. Maybe four. In his defense, he looks really good. Hot little light pink button-down; black suit that fits him too good; hair that makes Richie wanna bend him over and—

Anyway, the reception takes place in a large party tent that’s set up about thirty feet away. Unfortunately, Richie can’t avoid Eddie there. Eddie turns to him at one point after they’ve walked in and set their stuff down at their table, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You look great,” Eddie says.

Richie does a slow, confused look around his immediate vicinity. Then he takes his finger and points to himself with a question in his eyes.

“Y-yes, Richie, you—yeah, I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Oh,” Richie says, dumbly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Maid of Honor, huh?”

"Yeah, you know, I thought about wearing a dress, but I just didn't wanna pull focus from the bride. That's tacky."

"Hm. That's noble of you."

“Mm-hmm. You, uh..." Richie swallows. "You look…also great. Great, also.”

Eddie gives a mildly irritated sigh, then heads straight for the open bar. Richie follows him there, because now he’s hooked.

“Hey, hey wait! I mean it! Last time I saw you, I was kinda worried, to be honest. Now, you’ve, um. Got some, um. Meat back on your bones.”

_Thighs thighs thighs thighs—_

_“Meat_ back on my _bones?”_

“Yeah! You know, uh. Healthy. You look…very…healthy.”

It just sounds like he’s talking about his ass. There’s no saving it now. It’s a fucking dumpster fire. It’s too late.

Eddie nods.

“Okay. Well, hey, uh, I’ll have an old fashioned,” he tells the bartender when he turns around. Eddie then looks at Richie, expectantly.

“Oh, uh, Diet Coke, thanks.”

“Fucking excuse me?” sputters Eddie.

Richie looks at him. With a shy smile, he pulls the chip from out of his pants pocket, and places it on the bar.

“Oh…my God,” Eddie breathes, apparently stupefied.

“Five months and counting.”

“That’s…that’s really great, Richie. That’s…wow. I…wow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe it makes him a fuckin’ pussy, but Richie’s pretty sure he’s blushing.

“Thanks,” he says, except he doesn’t really know what for.

Eddie clears his throat; takes a sip of his drink when it’s served to him. “You, uh…you got your speech all ready?”

Richie cracks open his Coke. “No, actually, I thought I’d write it right now.”

Eddie freezes mid-sip.

Richie holds up the flashcards in his pocket, and Eddie’s shoulders visibly relax.

“Those two kids, huh? Who’d’ve thought?”

“Literally everybody.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Once everyone gets settled back in their seats, the speeches come next (Richie kills it. He basically just does stand-up, peppered in with _Comedy Central’s Roast of Ben Hanscom_ and cute shit about how much he loves Bev), and then it’s the cake. Then it’s dancing. The first dance fucking makes him want to yartz up the cake, but they’d insisted on “I’ll Be Loving You (Forever)” for _sentimental reasons._ Richie thinks it’s probably more because they’re two straight white people with bad taste. 

For the next song, when Ben dances with his mom, Bev dances with Richie. There’s something about it that’s pretty great, and gets him closer to tearing up than he’s really comfortable with.

Bev does look beautiful—not that that’s some groundbreaking statement, but it’s true. When she leans in and whispers, _“Thank you, Richie,”_ he has to make a joke otherwise he’ll definitely cry.

“Wait. Stop. It’s not too late to leave Haystack and run away with me, you know. You’ve always had the hots for me, I know you—”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Got it.”

They start playing the good shit after that. After a few songs of dancing just so he can say he did it, Richie slides into the seat at their table next to Eddie, who danced for about one song and sat back down, choosing instead to drink alone.

“Hey there, Sour Sally. What’s got you down?”

“What the fuck, even.”

“If I were still allowed to drink, I know I’d be having a lot more fun than that.”

“I’m having fun.”

“You’re frowning. At a wedding.”

“And I’m _enjoying it.”_

“Jesus, you make Oscar the Grouch look amenable.”

The rest of their table is currently empty, so Bev slides into the seat next to Richie, a bit out of breath.

“Okay,” she begins in a disturbingly calm sort-of tone that very pointedly says _something’s happened._ She folds her hands out in front of her and straightens her spine. “Bill and Mike are fucking.”

Richie looks back to the bar with interest. “Right now?”

Bev quickly slaps him on the arm. It hurts.

“Richie! Don’t look!”

“What? That sounds hot, I wanna see!”

Eddie is covering his eyes with one hand, rubbing at his temples. “Jesus Christ.”

Richie laughs. “Okay, Bev, as fun as that is to think about—”

_“Ben. Caught them. In the bathroom,”_ she tells them, speaking real low and barely moving her lips as she talks.

Richie and Eddie are now fully turned towards her, mouths agape.

“Wh—before the ceremony? When nobody could find—” Eddie asks, presumably once he can string words together again.

Bev nods once. “M-hm.”

Richie eventually has to close his mouth before a bug flies in.

“W—uh, y—uh, y’know, _look,”_ Richie starts. “I did the whole coming out thing first, and now everyone’s just copying me, and that makes me very uncomfortable.”

“Is now a bad time to tell you I experimented in college?” Bev asks.

“Yes.”

“I experimented a_ lot.”_

“Go away.”

Bev does leave to go dance some more, leaving Richie and Eddie with one hell of a fuckin’ ice-breaker.

“So,” Richie starts. “I guess…it’s true what they say about weddings, huh?”

Eddie is staring straight down into his drink, bug-eyed. Richie thinks something might actually be wrong with him.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Eddie starts. “Sorry, I’m just processing…”

“I know. It’s a lot to think about.”

“Yeah.”

“A _lot._ To think about.”

“Yeah, Richie, I know—”

“—as in I’ll be thinking about it. A lot.”

“I _get it.”_

“Man, that…that really warms the heart. _Bill and Mike._ Jesus. That’s romance, baby.”

Eddie frowns.

He downs his drink in one long pull, and slams it back on the table. It makes Richie jump a little.

“I’m, uh…I’m gonna go do something,” Eddie says, and is up and gone. 

Turns out, that _something_ is maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to Richie.

He watches Eddie spend a lot of time flitting about the room, talking to the DJ for a while, then chatting with Bill by the bar; getting beers. After about ten minutes, Bill and Eddie head to the dance floor.

By this point, the floor’s cleared out a little, with some people getting tired and returning to their seats. Bev, Ben and Mike all come back to the table. Richie has to pinch himself every five seconds to keep from waggling his eyebrows at Mike. 

Then, Bill and Eddie are getting handed microphones.

Oh, God.

“Oh, God.”

Bev places a death grip on Richie’s arm and starts her “Oh, G—”, but is interrupted by the first low notes of “Under Pressure.”

Bill and Eddie both still have their beers in their hands. Mike, with zero hesitation, pulls out his phone and starts recording.

Bill starts in with Freddie’s part. Eddie soon joins, in full force, with Bowie’s.

_“PRESSURE! Pushing down on me! Pushing down on you—no man ask for!”_

“Beverly…is…this…”

“Richie, I…” Bev answers, lost for words also.

Eddie and Bill are really, _much_ drunker than Richie had thought.

They sing the whole song. Robustly. And they do it, actually…pretty well. 

The whole room is cheering. The Losers' table most of all. Richie would be too, if he could come out of the state of shock he’s been in for three minutes.

Bill and Eddie are really…using the space. And Richie hadn’t realized that their particular brand of drunk meant that they both suddenly lost all sense of modesty or hesitation, because they both treat that song like it’s their bitch. 

“Did they rehearse this?” Richie mutters to Bev, who is currently too delighted to answer.

_“’Cause love’s such an old fashioned word! And love dares you, to care for the people on the edge of the night—and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves, this is our last dance! This is ourselves…”_

Bev shrieks and laughs, clapping her hands above her head.

Richie is smiling. As big as he’s done in months.

_“…Under pressure.”_

Bill and Eddie hug once the song ends—which is a hug that looks like they’re both just trying to prevent themselves from falling over. When it looks like they actually might, Richie and Ben both stand up to help them get back to their seats.

“All right, tiger. Time for some water.” Richie pats Eddie firm on the back.

“Richie, did you see that shit?” Eddie slurs. “I was fucking _good!”_

“Yep. Yeah, you were.”

The rest of the night is long. Long enough to get Eddie and Bill to sober up just a little. There’s a lot of talking—just the six of them, long past when everyone else has left. Long past even when the cleaning crew comes in. After that, though, they have to leave, just to avoid getting kicked out.

There are many long hugs. Bev’s is the longest. Ben’s is the second-longest. Bill’s is shorter, but with a pointed, _“We are fucking talking about this, shithead._” whispered in his ear. Bill nods.

After he’s hugged Mike, he turns to Eddie, who nods his head towards the left parking lot.

“You headed my way?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

They stroll leisurely across the lot. Eddie kicks up the gravel with each step. Richie’s got his hands shoved in his pockets. The night is mostly silent, save for the cicadas and the distant sound of the highway. It reminds Richie of another place; another time.

“Where’ve you been, Eds?” he asks softly.

“Hm?”

“I said _where have you been?”_

“Oh. Uh, y’know.”

“I don’t.”

Eddie looks at him and swallows, eyes sad. Or drunk. 

“I’ve, uh…been dealing with…a lot.”

“Oh?”

“Y’know, almost dying isn’t as cool as you’d think it’d be.”

“I wish you’d have…called. Texted. Anything.”

“I…”

“Yeah?”

“I have something to say to you.” Eddie stops walking when he says it. “I had a lot of things to say to you, actually. I just…didn’t really know how to say them.”

Richie stops as well; turns.

“I’m here now.”

“Yeah. I guess you are.”

Richie is looking at him; waiting. Eddie thinks.

“Bev told me what you did,” he says.

“What I did?”

“Said you didn’t eat in the hospital for two days. Barely slept. Just sat in the chair and waited for me to...to wake up.”

“Well, I…y-yeah, Eds. I was pullin’ my hair out over you.”

“But then you left.” Eddie says it with a drunken frown that's more like a pout, like the ones he used to wear when they were kids and Richie had to pretend he didn't think they were adorable. Fuck it if he didn't still have to pretend, now.

Richie sighs. “Eds, I told you, your wife, she forced us out of the fuckin’ hospital. All of us. It wasn’t up for debate. And what’s more, I didn’t hear from you until you were fuckin’ gone. Weeks—months, you didn’t call, or text, or—”

“Neither did you.”

Richie looks at him like he just sprouted a third arm. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“How would you know what I wanted? I was in a fuck--" Eddie hiccups. "Fuckin' coma. ”

“'Cause I—” Richie stops himself. Freezes. He realizes he can’t say it.

“Richie...”

“Nothing. I…I guess I just…with your wife, and…”

The silence feels like something more, now. He can hear the wind pick up. And Eddie's eyes go all sad. 

“Richie, talk to me.”

“I am, I’m…I’m talking to you, I’m…”

Eddie gives him a look.

“What? What do you want me to say?” Richie asks, frustratedly.

Eddie’s eyes are boring right through him now. Like if he looks hard enough, Richie will know _just_ what he wants him to say. Then, all at once, he gives it up. He relents. He sighs—long and laborious.

“What are we doing, Richie?” And it sounds painfully fucking tired.

Richie frowns.

“Is this it? We're just gonna spend the rest of our lives, pretending...?”

“Wh-what?” Richie stutters.

“You know _what,”_ Eddie spits.

Richie is shaking his head. Shaking it until he can’t see straight. _No._

_No._

“No.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!” Richie yells, louder than he should and standing his ground. “I—I remember some shit, sure! But that doesn’t mean…that doesn’t mean that—”

“It means _nothing?”_

“I didn’t say that!”

“You might as well have! That’s what you said to me the day you left. You fucking know it is. You--you don’t know how bad that fucked me up, Richie, you don’t know—”

Richie can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and he can’t think about then. He can’t think about _then,_ not now, not with Eddie standing here, it’s too much.

“Stop it,” he says, before Eddie can keep going. “That’s not why I did that. Stop.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Richie paces once, back and forth, with his hands above his head. 

“I didn’t say that shit to you because I didn’t care about you!” he shouts. “I said it because I did! Because it was the only thing I thought I could say that would make it okay!”

“You told me you didn’t like guys—you told me you were confused!”

“I lied!”

“No goddamn shit!”

“I was fuckin' terrified, Eddie, what the fuck do you want me to say?" He hates the way it sounds coming out; hates how broken, and how angry. But the words won't come out softer. "I’d been lying to you my whole life, telling you I was straight. I was leaving in two hours. I didn’t want--I didn't want to hurt you.”

“You _did.”_

“I _know. _I’m _sorry._ I’ve thought about it every day since I remembered, and it_ kills_ me.”

Eddie’s eyes are filled with tears. 

“No, you don’t know. You still don't get it. You don’t get why…why I…”

“But somehow I fucked it up. I made you think I didn’t give a shit, I know, and now you hate me anyway. And I’m sorry, Eddie, I—”

"You stupid fuck--" it comes from Eddie almost like a laugh, which doesn't fucking compute. It has Richie slamming on the brakes, face contorting into ten different kinds of confused. 

"Wh--"

“Richie, I’m gay.”

It sucks the sound out of the world and the breath out of his lungs.

“…Eddie.”

“I’ve known I was gay since I was fourteen, you just weren’t fucking paying attention.”

Richie’s throat feels tight.

“Eddie, this is fuckin' mean.”

Eddie shakes his head. "It's not."

"Yeah, it--"

“It's not. I’m telling you the truth. You know that I am.”

There is a hot sting behind Richie’s eyes, and it grows and grows until he can hardly see through the fog. He thinks he’s staggering backwards on two feet, like _he’s_ the one who’s smashed. 

“You’re drunk,” Richie remembers. “N—nah, Eds, Eds, you’re drunk.”

“Drunk or not, I think I know whether or not I’m gay, asshole.”

“You’re married. You’re married to a woman—”

“—I hate, and you fuckin' know that, too.”

“Wh—why are you telling me this? I mean, great. Good for you. That’s…great. Why—”

“You know why.”

He takes a sharp inhale, and it feels like he’s been stabbed. 

“Okay. I’m going home.”

Richie has his keys in his hand. He’s turned away and is storming back to his car. Eddie is close behind him.

“Richie.”

Richie turns back briefly; points at him, his finger shaking.

“Fuck you.”

“Richie, _don’t_, don't, not again—please—”

Richie gets in his car; turns on the ignition. Eddie’s got his hand on the open car door. Richie pauses only for a moment—only to look Eddie in the eyes.

“You know what, Eddie, I just…I didn’t think you still hated me _this _much.”

_“No_. Richie, that’s not it, please don’t—”

Richie slams his car door, and drives away.

He makes it home around one in the morning. It’s raining.

He’s tired. So tired it feels like he’s drunk. He’s stumbling his way on to the elevator, and off it.

The first thing he does once he’s made it inside his apartment is find the nearest wall, and bang his head against it.

_“Fuck,”_ is spoken long, sharp, and to no one. 

He stares at his couch, realizing the probable inevitability of him ending up asleep on it. He stumbles slowly over to it and collapses with his head in his hands.

It is thirty-two minutes, one Diet Coke, and ten more minutes of stalling later before his thumb is pressing Eddie’s name on his contact list.

Eddie picks up on the second ring.

_“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Eddie, Happy Birthday to you.”_

_“Richie—”_

“What, did you think I forgot?”

_“My guess is you remembered about an hour ago and spent all that time debating whether or not you were gonna pick up the phone and call.”_

Richie gives a low chuckle. “Well, maybe there’s something to that, yeah.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything then, but Richie can hear his uneasy breathing into the microphone.

“…Did you mean it?” Richie groans after a silence that is too long.

_“Yes.”_

“You…you wouldn’t…”

_“I don’t hate you. I was mad. I was hurt. I don’t hate you. I don’t think I can.”_

Richie breathes heavy as he rubs at his eyes with his other hand. He rubs them until he sees spots.

_“I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I wouldn’t do that to you,”_ Eddie swears.

_“Why_ did you marry her?” It’s angry.

_“I forgot why I shouldn’t.”_

Richie hates that answer.

“I hate that answer.”

_“I do, too,”_ Eddie says to him. _“I forgot everything, and then, Richie, I remembered, and I—”_

There is a long pause.

_“I’m gonna leave her, Rich.”_

Richie thinks. He thinks long and hard.

“Where are you right now?”

_“In my hotel room.”_

“Mm.”

_“I’m really glad you called, Richie.”_

“Yeah?”

_“I wanted you to call. Thought about you calling. I just didn’t think you would.”_

Richie takes his deep breath, to end all deep breaths. Thinks about Eddie's eyes on him tonight. Thinks about the way he looked; the way he smelled. Thinks about the weight behind the sound of _"you know why"_\--the way it hung in the air and smelled so heady. He thinks about the way Eddie's mouth felt warm when it was on him, and the way he'd wanted it in the car. Richie takes all of his caution, and he throws it out the window.

“You think about me a lot?”

There is a long, pregnant pause. And it marks it all--like B.C. and A.D.--before and after, with a hard line in the sand. There's a moment in the silence--that should be terrifying but for some reason just doesn't faze him the way it should--that Richie is left with nothing but the thought that they can never, ever go back from this. 

And then: _“…Richie.”_ It is shock, and sadness, and joy, and something that might be arousal if Richie didn’t think about it so hard. It’s all of those things in the sound of Richie’s name from Eddie’s voice.

Richie’s head hits the back of the couch. He shifts in his seat. His fists clench; unclench.

“’Cause I think about you all the fucking time. It’s fuckin’ annoying how much. You bug the hell outta me, you know that?”

_“Richie,"_ Eddie gasps, _"don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”_

“I mean it.”

_“Ri—Rich—”_

“I mean it. We’re not doing this shit anymore.”

_“Good. I don’t want to either.”_

“You looked good tonight,” Richie says, lowly.

_“You…you said that earlier.”_

“Yeah, but I want you to know how I meant it.”

There is a long pause on the other line.

_“…How did you mean it?”_

“Eds.”

_“Yeah?”_

“You looked fucking _good_ tonight,” he growls into the phone, deciding. Deciding for both of them.

This morning—hell, an hour ago, Richie wouldn’t have believed it if he’d heard it. But Eddie lets out an unmistakable, quiet whimper.

“Fuck.”

_“Richie.”_

_“Fuck.”_

_“Richie, do you want—”_

_“Yes_. Fucking—”

_“Richie," _Eddie sighs into the phone. Richie waits; waits for Eddie to decide this time. Hands him the reins, and is prepared even to stop.

_"Richie. Touch yourself, okay?”_

“Are you—” Richie breathes; chokes.

_“I—I am.”_ And God help him, he hears it. Hears the hitch in Eddie’s breath. Hears the soft shuffle of his clothes. Hears him moving against the sheets.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears as he hastily undoes his belt. He’s grabbing for the lotion on the end table. He’s past the point of disbelief—if it’s a dream, and he’s passed out on the couch right now, then _good._ He deserves a fuckin’ dream like this. 

_“Richie, I want you. Richie, I wanted you so bad all night. I want you all the fucking time, don’t even remember not wanting you, I—”_

“Hey, hey, I got you.” Because Eddie sounds like if he keeps talking like that, he’s gonna give himself another panic attack. “You’re doing so good, I got you.”

_“God," _and he gasps like he's holding back fuckin' tears. _"Can’t fucking believe how hot you are. I wanna fuckin’ cry every time I see you. You in your fucking suit—”_

“Me?”

_“Yeah, you. Your fucking hair, your arms, your stupid fucking huge ass shoulders, your hands—makes me fucking lose it, every time I look at you want you to hold me down n’ fuck me so hard I can’t—”_

“Eds, I’m gonna black the fuck out.” And he means it. He’s fuckin’ losing vision, fast. 

_“Don’t. Need you to get me off, first.”_

“Alright, fuckin’ brat.”

_“Tell me yours.”_

“My—”

_“Tell me.”_

“Eds, baby, I can’t tell you every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had about you, we’ll be here ‘till your next fuckin’ birthday.”

_“Tell me about tonight, then.”_

“Looked so fuckin’ good. Wanted to rip your goddamn clothes off; bend you the fuck over, fuck you over the hood of my car. Hot little ass of yours in those tight fuckin’ pants I know you wore for me.”

_“Richie, yes—”_

“God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it all these years. All those times you looked so fuckin’ ridiculous—so stupid hot, ripped outta some porno—just ‘cause you were choking for it. Had me going home and rubbin’ one out so hard I couldn’t see straight for days—”

_“Oh, God—”_ and he groans so fucking pretty.

“Mike’s Prom? You know many weeks I spent at home in bed doin’ nothing but rubbin’ one out to the thought of you after Mike’s Prom? Nearly killed me. You fuckin’ cocktease, and you knew it too, that’s the worst fuckin’ part."

_“Richie, Richie, please, Richie—”_

“You thought about this? You thought about me calling you and fuckin’ you and getting you off alone in your hotel room? Jesus, that’s fuckin’ so hot—”

_“Thought about us doing this every day since I remembered you existed. Christ, Richie, givin’ me fuckin’ blue balls not knowing with you—not knowing whether you wanted it, didn’t know if you felt—”_

“Don’t even fuck your wife anymore?”

_“Not since—not since—”_

“Huh. Poor woman.”

_“Jesus, Richie, not now!”_

“Sorry! Fuck, uh—”

_“Richie, want you to suck me off so bad—”_

“Eddie—”

_“Can’t think straight with how much—want you to hold me down, want to pull at your fuckin’ hair, wanna rock into your mouth—” _Eddie’s fuckin’ whining. Fuckin’ panting. And Richie can’t grip his dick fuckin’ rough enough for how he feels. 

“Eddie, _Eddie, Eddie—_” 

_“—wanna cum down your throat—”_

_“Fuck,_ Eddie, fuck—” He doesn’t think anymore. Doesn’t bother. Everything is Eddie’s voice—and, faintly, the memory of a hand on his cock.

_“You’re so hot. You’re so good, Richie. So fuckin’ hot my brain fucking short-circuits thinkin’ about it.”_

“Eddie, you—”

_“I’ll get you there. I’d be so fuckin’ good for you, Richie. Wanna be so good, when you fuck me, I—”_

“Yeah? Yeah? You would, wouldn’t you? Be good? You’d fuckin’ sound so good, taste so fuckin’ good. Grind on me so good. You’d fuckin’ beg me for it so pretty, feel so fuckin’ tight around my dick—”

_“Gonna—need—”_

“Oh, God. Oh, fuckin’ Christ, you—I’m—”

_“Keep talking. Richie—oh God—please keep talking. Please, I’m there, I’m—”_

“Fuck. Yeah, you’re there. C’mon, baby, you’re gonna do it for me. So hot. You’re gonna come for me; be so good for me. Want you to come so bad, you sound so pretty when you beg, so good, so fuckin’ beautiful—God, you’re—it’s—”

_“Richie, do it with me, please, Richie, come on, Richie, need you—”_

“Yeah. Yeah, anything you want—whatever the fuck you want, Eds, I’ll hold you down; screw you into your fucking mattress if you want, I’ll literally do whatever the fuck you want, you know I’d do anything—”

_“Oh, fuck! Fuck, Richie! I—Fuck, I love you, I fuckin’ love you, I fuckin’ love you—”_

“Fuck—”

He does black out, for a moment. But when he does, it’s a little piece of every memory from his childhood. It’s a little bit of the quarry. A little bit of the car, and the hammock. A little bit of the song. A little piece of every joy he’s ever felt. All of it’s Eddie. 

He’s panting; catching his breath as he comes to. He grabs a wad of tissues; cleans himself off. 

Eddie is breathing, same as him. But he’s not saying anything.

“Eds,”

_“Don’t.”_

“Eds,”

_“Don’t call me that.”_

“Let me at least—”

_“Goodnight, Richie. I—”_ Eddie stops. _“Goodnight, Richie,”_ he says again.

“Yeah,” Richie sniffles. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie hangs up first.

Richie tosses his phone beside him on the couch. He zips himself up. 

He's alone, and his apartment seems much larger than it ever did.

He goes around; one-by-one, turns the lights off in his apartment. The rain pounds against his window. Lightning strikes about a mile out. Richie makes it to his bedroom; falls asleep face down in his bed, in his clothes from the wedding.

(He doesn't dream about the sex. He dreams about the letters on the bridge. When he wakes up, it’s like he can still feel the splinter in his thumb.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


	6. Lovesong, Part One

** May 8, 1993 **

Eddie Kaspbrak holds the tape in the palms of his two hands.

He doesn’t know whether he should play it. 

Eddie squints; frowns; tilts his head at it. Runs his thumb over the faded marker that reads, simply: _“Eds”._ A very small voice in his head is worried the tape might self-destruct, like in those spy shows his mom would sometimes watch. Or come alive and bite him. 

Richie would think that was stupid, and that Eddie was being a baby.

Most of the time, when Richie handed him a tape to listen to, they were not good. Or—well, they probably were. But the music ended up not really being Eddie’s thing.

He still remembered that time Richie had given him a Van Halen cassette _(“Their lead guitarist’s name is Eddie—that’s your name!”). _Eddie had thought the gesture was very special and exciting, until he had popped it in his boombox that Wednesday night around dinner time.

_(“—PANAMA! PANAMA-A! PANAM—”_

_Eddie had jumped off his bed, scrambling for the eject button as the sound had nearly blown out his speakers, his eardrums, and had shaken the entire floor. He tripped on his bedpost though, and knocked his piggy bank off his dresser in his haste, and one misfortune after another had the tape still playing at full blast when his mom screamed up from downstairs:_

_“Eddie! Eddie-bear, turn that off! What God awful noise is that? Turn it off this—“)_

He had handed it back to Richie the next day, face red and frowning, with a look that just said _“no”._

But this tape is different, Eddie thinks. It was made for him.

Also, tonight, his mom was not home. She had gone to Augusta to visit with her sisters. She had been planning the trip for many weeks, and was frustrated that Eddie had not gone with her—but he had outright refused. It had earned him a month of grounding at first. Then, he had batted his eyes at her, fed her some lie about schoolwork and finals, and she had caved. He mentioned nothing about prom.

And for a moment, Eddie had won a great victory against her. His mother was gone, and he had the house to himself for prom weekend, and neither he nor Richie had made any plans to go. They could come to Eddie’s place and hang out, instead. They could be alone. 

But that was before. Before Richie had said the name, _“Bethany Kowalski”_, and ruined everything.

Eddie tries not to think about where Richie could be with her right now. If he thought too much about it, it would make him cry, and he wasn’t going to do that. Besides, he knew Richie didn’t like Bethany anyway. He was just pretending. He wouldn’t go do anything with her. Not after their fight on the kissing bridge that had left him feeling so miserable. Not after he gave Eddie the tape. Richie wouldn’t do that. 

The tired way in which Richie had spat at him on the bridge had filled Eddie with instant regret. He shouldn’t have said those things. He shouldn’t have been so cruel. Not when Richie, in three months, would be… 

But Richie just made him _so mad_ sometimes. Mad because Richie just didn’t _get it_ —he _never_ did. No matter _what_ Eddie did to get his attention—he could be jumping up and down, screaming, doing cartwheels—Richie still wouldn’t budge.

He had felt the force of the shove when Richie had pushed the tape into his chest—but he had also felt the brief graze of Richie’s fingertips against his arm as he had let go of it. Richie probably hadn’t thought anything of it—hadn’t cared—but Eddie had. It felt so wonderful—so, so wonderful—the graze and the tape in his hands—that just for a second, Eddie had forgotten all about Bethany Kowalski, or Portland, Oregon, or the way Richie had hardly even looked at him all night, and didn’t even really seem to care that he was moving in August, and would never see Eddie again. 

But now he’s home, and he’s remembering it all again.

He sits on the edge of his bed and he stares up at the boombox.

_What if you don’t want to know what’s on the tape? What if it means something bad? Worse—what if it’s nothing? What if it doesn’t mean anything? What if it’s just a collection of stupid Van Halen songs, because Richie could never take a hint—never paid attention? And even though you thought you and Richie both understood each other better than you even understood yourselves—what if that’s not true? What if even though you could map Richie’s whole soul on the back of your hand—what if he never even really knew you at all? What would it mean, then?_

Eddie was going to have to be brave, though. Whatever the tape was, he had to hear it. He _had to._ Richie probably wouldn’t want to speak to him anymore, anyway. Not after tonight. Eddie had gone too far, just like he always did. Said stuff he didn’t even mean—hadn’t even ever _thought_ about until it was coming out of his mouth. This tape might be…might be all that was left, pretty soon, if it wasn’t already. 

Alone in his bedroom—where a month ago he thought he might be tonight, with Richie—Eddie begins to feel very small. His house is very quiet. And he hasn’t taken his suit off yet. (He thought he looked great in it. Hot, even. He _knew _so—until Richie hadn’t said anything. All he could talk about was Bethany Kowalski and her tits.)

Eddie takes a deep breath.

He puts the tape in the boombox.

** NOW **

He splashes tap water in his face, dries himself off with a towel, and turns off the bathroom light. When he crawls into bed next to Myra, she is already fast asleep.

The worst part is, the guilt did not come until he was home. 

Myra was always decent to him. She meant well. She didn’t deserve a husband who cheated on her. Not even over the phone. 

That was what the good, well-behaved, well-mannered part of his brain said, anyway. The other part—the one which had been more active as of late—said that he was pretty sure she’d been fucking her yoga instructor.

Not that he particularly cared. It kind of hurt, but then again, it was kind of a relief in some ways, too. It’s not as if he’d thought twice when Richie had called. In fact, it’s probably fair to say that Eddie had initiated it. Wanted it for his own, selfish reasons, with no thought to Myra or, even, really, Richie.

Maybe that’s because he had thought the sex, or…whatever it was, was one thing, and Richie had thought it was something very different.

It still made him feel a little sick—and a whole lot of stupid—thinking about how he must have sounded. He had—obviously—never done anything like that before. The unspeakably dirty, almost fucking _rehearsed_ way Richie was talking, it sounded like he did it just about every other weekend. He was certain none of _those_ phone calls ever ended with, _“oh God I love you, oh I fucking love you,”. _

What a fuckin’ idiot.

Maybe Eddie had been assuming a lot of things. He used to be able to look in Richie’s eyes and just…_know_ . Know that no matter what Richie said (or didn’t say), with them, there was something more. He swore that Richie looked at him sometimes and Eddie could tell what he was thinking. Could feel it. That the emotions that swept his face like a quick but forceful breeze went beyond what words could ever say. That Richie had felt what Eddie had felt, in those moments that remained preserved in time, like a snow globe. The hammock. The quarry. Mike’s Prom. The car. He wasn’t projecting. He _knew._

Eddie had assumed that by returning to Derry, Richie might, once he remembered it all, start to feel those same things again. That he might want Eddie again, in more ways than just the one. 

But maybe that wasn’t the case at all. Maybe Richie hadn’t done what Eddie had done—married a woman he could hardly stand and couldn’t feel attraction to, thereby sealing his fate for the rest of his life that he’d never be happy. Maybe Richie led a life he was comfortable with. Maybe he didn’t need Eddie anymore, in the way Eddie needed him. Or maybe—the worst and smallest voice says—he had just been wrong, and Richie had never felt that way about him at all. Not in the way Eddie had.

Eddie’s mind runs frantically through all of the silences—all the times he’d needed Richie to say something; anything—to reassure him, to let him know he felt it too—and Richie instead had said nothing at all. It’s maybe the worst pain there is, the thought that he was kidding himself. 

Or, that even if he wasn’t, even if Richie had felt something and still did, that Richie was beyond him anyway. That Richie would never come around, never admit it to himself or Eddie—that Eddie had burned that bridge the day Richie left Derry, with just three words. 

Maybe Eddie even deserved that scorning. It wouldn’t surprise him—Richie not needing or wanting him that way anymore, after what he’d done. Richie seemed to be not much different from the rest of their friends: he was moving on with his life. He was breaking the cycle, on the road to recovery and success and happiness and fulfillment. 

It seemed Eddie was the only one doing none of those things.

Upon returning, Eddie had remembered it all in an instant—all of it, everything—and just as quickly as he’d remembered the joy of how it felt to be young and alive, he knew he would never, ever feel that way again. 

Maybe a part of him had died in Derry.

He stops looking up at the ceiling and turns his head towards Myra again.

He was a piece of garbage husband. Sure, so maybe he was gay. But he had made vows. _He _did that—no one else. He didn’t have to. He could’ve…he could’ve not married her. And then he’d be…forty. And single. And miserably lonely. And probably no more out of the closet than he was now. With a mother who would’ve died slightly more disappointed in him than she already had been.

…Come to think of it, there weren’t actually very many ways his life would be all that different if he hadn’t married Myra. That probably says something extraordinarily depressing about his marriage, or about him.

He’d told Richie he would leave her. He knew what he’d said. But that had been when he’d felt brave, and sexy, and wanted. And, admittedly, very drunk. Now, he felt none of those things. And, strikingly, lonely.

He wasn’t really brave like Richie was—or Bev, or Bill. He’d only pretended he was, long enough so he could save Richie from It, because no one else could. He wasn’t brave. Really, he was sad. And very scared. Of being alone. Of dying alone. 

His therapist tells him these are valid fears that everyone has (Eddie’s still not so sure—not in the way he feels it. Not in that paralyzing, debilitating way that has him constantly sabotaging his own happiness) but she keeps asking Eddie questions about Myra—like she’s not sure that he didn’t just marry her because he was afraid. (He did). 

His therapist doesn’t know that he’s gay. Richie is, of course, the only person who knows that.

Eddie is swinging his legs out of bed, and padding on bare feet to the living room, where he sits down on the couch.

He calls Richie.

_“Richie Tozier; what are you wearing?”_

“Stop,” Eddie says. It comes out sort of harsh, but it’s the only way to mask that he’s pleading with him.

_“Hey, Eds, can we do that thing where—”_

“No. No, we can’t. I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen.”

_“O—okay…”_

“We…we can’t, Richie. We can’t do that again.”

_“But—”_

“Ever. I mean it.”

_“Eds—Eddie, I wanna explain myself, can you just give me a chance to—”_

“Dammit—Richie, I’m married. I have a wife.”

_“You said—”_

“I know. I know what I—but, it’s not right. I don’t think I…I don’t think I can, I…I can’t. I can’t, Richie.”

_“Eddie, Eddie, please, I…I remember, I—I remember now, and I wanna—” _There’s something different in Richie’s voice when he starts begging. Something Eddie can’t think too much about.

“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m sorry.”

There is a long pause, and a long, resolute sigh.

_“…Okay.”_

Eddie frowns. “Okay?”

_“Yeah. Sure. Fuck. Whatever you want.”_

“Oh…okay.”

_“I just hope…”_

“What?” Maybe it sounds a little too desperate when he asks it.

_“I just hope you’re…y’know, happy, is all. I hope you’re happy.”_

“Oh. I’m…” Eddie starts, feeling lightheaded now all of a sudden, and doesn’t finish.

_“When are you…when can I…when can I see you again?”_

Eddie swallows. “Not for…not for a while, I don’t think. I…”

_“…Oh.”_

“Work, and…and Myra, I’ve been away for—”

_“Yeah. Okay. I…I get it.”_

“It might…it might be a while, Richie, I don’t…Yeah, I don’t know.”

_“…Sure.”_

Eddie nods; sighs. “Alright, well, I’m…I’m, uh—”

_“Sleep tight, Eds.”_

“Right. Yeah. Bye.”

The next morning at the breakfast table, life begins to feel normal again. 

One cup of coffee; black. Scrambled egg whites, for his cholesterol. Eddie reads the paper. Myra plays Candy Crush.

Eddie looks across the table. He thinks for a moment.

“Do you like New York?”

Myra blinks at the sound of his voice and, eventually, glances up from her phone, as if she wasn’t sure it was her he was talking to.

“Hm? What?”

“I mean, do you…I’ve been thinking about maybe selling the house.”

Myra blinks some more.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I…I don’t know, I guess I was just thinking about a…a change of scenery, I guess.”

“To…to what?”

“I don’t know, somewhere…somewhere sunnier, maybe.”

“Florida?”

“No, no, not…not necessarily Florida, really. Maybe…maybe California, y’know, L.A.—”

“Ugh. No. I don’t want to live out there with those hippie liberals and their smog-infested…you know that stuff gets in your lungs and kills you, Eddie. It’s why their life expectancy is shorter.”

Eddie frowns. “We live in New York, dear—”

“Anyway, Eddie, your job’s here. We can’t move.”

“I could…I could get a job somewhere else.”

“Not with benefits like these. They love you there, Eddie. It wouldn’t be smart.”

“No, maybe not, but it’d be…” Eddie searches for the word. “Different.”

Myra frowns. She shakes her head—as if shaking off the conversation in its entirety— then stands, grabbing her purse off the floor. “Alright, well, I can’t stay. I have yoga this morning.”

Eddie frowns, too. “I thought it was on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Myra pauses; purses her lips like she’s thinking. “Mm…no. Saturdays, too.”

“Weird. I swear you said—”

“Bye, honey. Love you.” She leans down and pecks him on the cheek.

“O-kay, uh—yeah. See you.”

Myra pauses at the door; turns around and looks back at him, like she’s expecting something. Eddie’s eyes widen briefly, then he remembers.

“Right. Love you, too.”

She smiles, then leaves.

Eddie sits with his breakfast. He frowns again, then narrows his eyes.

** June 7, 1990 **

Stanley did not have to tell him.

“I know you like Bill,” Eddie mutters one afternoon in the clubhouse. Richie and Bill didn’t come there anymore—not really. It was just him and Stan, mostly. Sometimes Mike. Even Ben seemed like he had forgotten—and he was the one who had built it.

Eddie is sitting with his legs crossed in the hammock, picking at his shoelaces. Stan looks up from the beanbag next to him. Eddie can feel the shock and maybe even fear in his stare.

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t care. I like Richie.”

Stan’s shoulders relax.

“Oh,” he says.

“That’s why I can tell.”

Stan nods, as though this makes sense to him. 

After what feels like a long while, Stan says: “Bill still really likes Beverly, though, even though she forgot about us.” He pauses. “Bill really likes girls.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose a little. “So does Richie.”

Stan shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s the same, though. There could be fifty girls in a room, and he’d still be trying to get _you_ to pay attention to him.”

Eddie frowns. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Stanley rolls his eyes. “It is.”

(Eddie is still bugging Stan about it when they go to grab ice cream.)

“I just don’t get how you can say that—_it’s not the same._ It is the same. How is it not the same?”

Stan digs his spoon into his banana split. “You’re not the one who has to watch it all the time,” he remarks dryly, as he puts the spoon in his mouth.

“But what does that mean? What does that mean? How is it not the same, Stan?”

(And when they go to the park.)

“—I mean Richie bugs the hell outta me, but he only does it because he’s really annoying like that. Not because…not because…”

“Yes because. It’s like he’s got horse blinders on whenever you’re in the room,” Stan says, but he has to shout a little when they pass by each other on the swings.

“But Bill pays attention to you, too! You’re good friends.”

“Eddie, one time we were all at the clubhouse last summer, and Bill didn’t see me sitting in the bean bag for thirty whole minutes. He jumped and said, _‘Oh hey, Stan. Didn’t see you there. You scared me.’”_

There is a pause.

“…except he probably said it with a stutter, didn’t he?”

“—_Yes,_ Eddie! He said it with a stutter!””

(And when they’re walking home.)

“Richie and I are friends,” Eddie says, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. “Best friends, maybe, but…friends. If he knew—even though he won’t, ever, but _if _he did—he’d laugh at me. Or he’d think it was…weird.”

“It’s like this,” Stan says finally. “I don’t know what Richie thinks or doesn’t think, and frankly, I don’t ever want to. But he’s always tryna be around you. Making up dumb excuses, always acting real bitchy when you’re not around. And when you are there, it’s all about, _‘Hey Eds, look at me! Hurr durr durr!’”_

“Hey, that wasn’t all that bad, Stan.”

“Point is, it’s _not_ like me and Bill, Eddie.”

Eddie stops walking. He frowns. 

“Oh.”

** NOW **

Face hot, and eyes looking anywhere but at the twenty-something with blue hair filing her nails behind the counter, he slams the silicone dick down on the surface in front of him first—then the cash.

He should’ve just ordered the fucking thing online. But he had no idea what he was looking for, and…and, to be honest, he had half-hoped that the act of getting in his car, driving to a sex shop, and physically picking out a dildo would have him turning around and getting back in his car at the ridiculousness—if not shame—of it all. That it would make him feel so dirty—and not in the fun, exciting way—that he’d forget the whole thing. That would show him.

Somehow, it hadn’t worked out that way.

“You want a bag for that?”

“God, _please.”_

Myra’s not home when he gets back, which probably meant that there was a God, after all. He tosses the plastic bag on the bed and buries his face in his hands. 

He’d probably never felt more pathetic in his life. 

Well…

No. Nope. This was definitely his lowest moment.

It was a thought that had grown in the back of his mind like a goddamn tumor and had made a home there, and Eddie hadn’t realized just how lodged the thought had become until he was in the store and had the thing in his hand. 

He didn’t know why he made the choices he made, sometimes. 

He’d had to pay with cash. He’d had to take money out and pay with fucking _cash_ , so his wife wouldn’t see it on his fucking expense account. He’d had to go when she was out at brunch with her church friends. So he was a scumbag in that respect. _And_ he’d done it only a day after he’d told Richie they had to stop doing…whatever it was they were doing, so he was a scumbag all over again. He’d replaced his marriage with a mid-life crisis and Richie with a seven-inch plastic toy. Jesus, he was a catch.

He gets up; goes to the bathroom. He washes his hands—twice—with scalding hot water and scrubs them until they’re rough. 

When he returns, the dildo is still sitting there on the bed. He frowns at it, because he’d kind of hoped it wouldn’t be.

He should return it. He should go, right now and—did people return sex toys? Or was that not…a thing?

Eddie’s face is red hot with shame—and probably redder than his hands. He’s alone, in _his_ bedroom, in an empty house with _his_ name signed on the dotted line, and it’s like it doesn’t even matter. The sting of embarrassment is too much; too overwhelming to handle.

He turns back compulsively and walks to the bathroom to take a shower.

He takes the too-hot water and soap and scrubs everywhere; as if scrubbing hard and thorough enough will wash this whole stupid idea right off of him. 

He gets out, wraps a towel around his waist and winds up bracing his arms against the sink, swearing under his breath. 

_You’re such an idiot—it’s a Goddamn plastic toy. It’s just a stupid plastic toy. And you’re a fucking adult._

He takes a deep breath, shakes the anxiety from his body, and steps back out into the hallway.

The walk to the bedroom feels like it’s out of some scary movie. And even though It’s gone—long gone—Bev had told him so—some part of him wonders if the clown is what’s waiting behind the half-opened door at the end of the hall, laughing at him, ready to jump out of the shadows.

Of course, It’s not. Eddie, one hand on the door, pushes it open slowly as it creaks, and it’s just the stupid-looking, purple, plastic dick, still laying on the bed in the box it came in, tangled up in the plastic bag with the receipt. The sight makes him laugh, now. Out loud, to no one.

He’s going fucking crazy.

Eddie sits gingerly down on the edge of the bed and pulls the box into his lap, and stares at it.

He wasn’t a prude. Or, he didn’t think that he was. By Richie’s standards, maybe. But it never felt that way when Myra was gone for the weekend, and he spent his time laid up in bed with his fingers up his own ass, scrambling for release like a man dying of thirst in the desert. 

It’s just that he had never done _this _before. Had something that was tangible, irrefutable proof of his 40-year-old lie—and under the same roof he shared with his wife. Which probably made this idea very, very fucking stupid. Willful suicide, even. But he had bought it because…

He hadn’t done anything in college. Not really. Not like Bev talked about with…well, _experimenting. _‘Course, he’d still lived with his mother then. There had been a boy—sweet, dorky-looking, with glasses—who had kissed him one night after walking him to his car from class. Eddie had fled from that. Not, like, because it was unwanted but…because he hadn’t known what to do with it. And it was too much, too soon, and it reminded him too much of…

He had fled from that kiss, but soon sought out others, even if it was with nothing more than curious fascination. At parties he didn’t tell his mom he was going to. At social hangouts and get-togethers between classes she never needed to know about. He had grown up in Derry, and the idea that there were boys who liked boys in the world outside of it was a miracle that hadn’t wore off its shine by then.

His first and only, though, had been Myra. He’d wanted it to be Richie; he’d wished it was. Ever since he could think about sex, he’d wished it. He would’ve given it to Richie in high school, if he’d asked. But he never did. 

Anyone with less patience would’ve grown to assume that Richie didn’t want him back. But Eddie knew different. Even if sex was all it was—sex without the feelings that Eddie had—the way that Richie’d looked at him...it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. It was the same as it was now. Unfiltered want. Perhaps the one thing that Richie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—attempt to hide behind a joke.

He would’ve given it to Richie in that truck, with the sun rising and the song playing. But Richie had put a stop to it, and everything else along with it.

He met Myra one fateful day at church, years after the truck, and only a few years after college, and, after a heart attack that had left his mother on death’s door, heard the words, _“make me happy for once, and marry that nice girl,” _croak from her weak lips. So, he’d made his mother happy. Myra was thrilled. 

As it happened, his mother didn’t die for another three years yet. His mother had wanted grandkids, too. Oh, she went on about that. Myra didn’t seem to have any desire one way or the other. Children seemed to be a thing she wanted publicly, but not privately. Like, when they’d been at church, in front of his mother, it was like a big show: _“Oh, the little darlings! How sweet! Eddie and I can’t wait to have our own.” _ But when they were at home, it was none of that. The discussion of kids never even came up. Just the little things he’d pick up on, like the bizarre contempt and less-than-subtle racism in a sneered, _“Those neighborhood boys are up to something again, Eddie, I know they are,” _that made him sick to his stomach.

It was a thought he’d never share, but he didn’t think Myra would make a very good mother.

But she never pushed. Thankfully, they made love rarely, and when they did it was only because it went without saying that they would _really _be stretching the definition of a marriage if they didn’t. And because Eddie knew he’d rather jump off the Empire State Building than bring a child into this world with her, it was arrangement that worked fine for the both of them. 

Just not his mother. It had been her final disappointment.

Eddie sits on the edge of the bed and almost laughs again—something crossing his mind like, _if only she could see me now._ Richie’s laughter rings in his head: _“Old bitch would probably drop dead all over again. Wouldn’t that be somethin’.”_

It’s the thought of Richie that does it; has him tearing up now for who-knows-what stupid fucking reason. He shakes his head and waits for the misty cloud to go away.

He has to psyche himself up to do the next thing. Has to work up to it—but he’s committed, now. There’s something about the high of doing something as fucking stupid as this that has him throwing all caution out the Goddamned window. So he rips the plastic casing off in one fell swoop and takes his towel off; grabs the tiny bottle of lube from the drawer of his end table.

He’s glad there aren’t any mirrors in the bedroom, ‘cause that’d probably ruin it. For this to work, he has to close his eyes and just feel—remember what it felt like to have the hotel bedsheets moving beneath him and Richie’s dirty voice in his ear. 

** August 24, 1991 **

_(—sweet heat of his closeness mixed with sweetness and musk, and the way he leans in, and the line and bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows—)_

Eddie’s head is shoved in his locker as he pulls out his books. He’s not at risk of making eye contact with any seniors this way. It’s safer.

He doesn’t hear Bill approach.

“E-Eddie?”

Eddie turns slow. Bill’s got his backpack slung handsomely over one newly broad shoulder and he’s looking at him with questioning bright blue eyes.

It was a fact that no one in the world had ever grown into their looks as quickly and as effortlessly as Bill Denbrough at fifteen.

“I-I-I d-didn’t see you after class. You s-sorta ran out.”

Eddie thinks that maybe he grunts an affirmation, turning his attention back to stuffing his bookbag.

Bill steps closer. 

“Are y-you alright?”

Eddie blurts out an, “I’m fine,” then decides to make the effort of meeting Bill’s gaze, if only just to convince him.

Bill screws up his lips and nods and seems to accept it. 

“’Kay,” Bill starts. “So? H-h-how was the first day of h-high school?”

Eddie swings his backpack around his shoulders and shrugs—starts to form an answer, but then his locker is slammed shut in front of him with a _bang _that makes him jump out of his skin, and the terribly specific, lingering sweet smell of aftershave starts to assault all of his senses, and Eddie’s heart sinks.

“Jesus, Eds, has anyone ever told you you move around this place like the ghost of an old Victorian lady? Fuck, you’re a hard guy to find. I feel like I need to pull out my scrying orb just to pick you out of a crowd.”

“R-Richie—” Bill starts, already admonishing.

“Quiet Bill, I’m trying to communicate. Oh, ghost of Eddie, please tell us how you died.”

Eddie’s face feels hot like he’s maybe got a fever, and he’s frozen—he can’t even turn to look at Richie because looking at him would be like—

It feels like the word gets caught in his throat, but it seems that he manages, _“Stop,”_ because Richie does. Sort of. He pulls back a couple inches which at least serves to make the smell of him not so overwhelming.

Out of his periphery, he feels and half-sees Richie shooting Bill a look, something like _“What the fuck?”,_ which results in a concerned glance from Bill, who reaches out to put a wide hand on Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Y-you good? Hey, w-want me to w-walk you home?”

Eddie looks at Bill because doing that means he’s looking away from Richie. He nods.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Bill wraps his arm fully around both of Eddie’s shoulders now and starts guiding him down the hall, Richie left in the dust.

“Hey—whoa, whoa, whoa—” He can hear Richie’s lightly jogging footsteps struggling to keep up behind them. “Eds,” Richie calls trying to get his attention, and it’s softer than Eddie would expect and somehow that makes it all so much worse. “Eds, man, what the hell? What’s going on with you?”

_(“What are you looking for, **Eds**?”)_

“C-come on, b-b-back off, Richie.”

“W—well, sure, I mean just tell me what the hell’s going on, if I—"

Bill starts walking them faster, which Eddie appreciates. Bill’s a very good friend, he thinks—struck by it suddenly.

“Not now, Rich,” Bill calls behind them, and that seems to get Richie to stop following.

He still shouts out afterwards, though:

“Eds! What the fuck?”

The voice sounds almost hurt, and Eddie tries not to think about that.

Soon, he and Bill are past the schoolyard and walking down Eddie’s street, and that—not before—is when Bill removes his arm from around his shoulders and finally says something.

“So, that bad, huh?”

“Wh—”

“H-high school. Sucky f-first day, Eddie?” he asks with his hands now shoved in his pockets.

Eddie’s jaw tightens, and his bottom lip quivers, and he can only shrug.

“Aw, come on, you h-have to give me more th-than that.”

He shakes his head. “Naw, it’s—”

_(—and the way his eyes linger where they shouldn’t—)_

Eddie swallows. Blinks, and now his eyes are wet.

“Bill, I—”

_(—and the way he smells like a man probably should—)_

He can’t finish a full sentence. 

_(—mapping out the parts of your face that it feels like no one’s ever looked at before—)_

They’ve stopped walking now, he notices. Because they’re standing in front of the Kaspbrak house.

_(—and the way his eyelashes cast a shadow—God, he looks so **pretty**_—)

“Bill, I have to go.”

Eddie’s through the front gate already, hiding his face at every cost, and Bill doesn’t even call out to stop him.

He feels the thump of every heartbeat as he moves through his house, and the gradually increasing effort in every breath, airways restricting with every step past the front door.

_(eyes and hair and teeth and skin and smell and—)_

There’s the faint registry of his mother sitting in the living room as he passes by it, calling out his name with a sickeningly sweet lilt—except he can’t hear it, not really. All he hears is—

_(_ ** _dirty_ ** _and** wrong **and** evil **and** wrong **and** dirty **and **sick, sick, sick**—)_

And—

_(_ _No. God, no. No, no. Please, God, no. No, no, no. I’ve been good. I’ve been good and I can’t—I can’t—)_

He hyperventilates his way up the stairs and stumbles through his bedroom door, leans on it with his back to shut it and starts digging around frantically in his bag as the sound of his painful breathing becomes the only thing—the _only thing—_

_(**filthy filthy filthy filthy filthy filthy filthy filthy filthy**)_

He thinks he’s going to die. 

And then—

He gets his inhaler in his mouth. Presses down. Breathes, and sinks to the floor.

Eddie comes back to himself a little bit, though he’s still shaking.

It doesn’t feel real. It feels like some terrible nightmare.

As he sits there and cries, all he can manage to think is that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d said so many silent prayers at night, begging for it _not_ to ever be like this. But it didn’t matter.

It had been so easy before. Saying it to Stan. _“I like Richie”._ Because what it meant wasn’t… _that._ It meant Richie’s easy smiles and the sound of his laughter, and the way Eddie would get goosepimples and a little blush when Richie grabbed his arm tight. 

But today, when Richie had sat down next to him in class, after he hadn’t hardly seen him all summer because Eddie’s mom had whisked him away to his aunts’ in Augusta, it suddenly meant something so different.

At passing glance, Eddie could still be confused for the thirteen-year-old boy of the summer of ’89. But Richie couldn’t. Richie had changed, into some wonderful hybrid of boy and man that somehow—and God knows Eddie couldn’t articulate why—changed everything. 

The first thing Eddie had noticed was the new smell of aftershave mingled with deodorant, and somehow that one was the worst. Because Richie hadn’t ever smelled like that before. _Nice._ Richie had always smelled like grass stains and sweat and body odor, and that smell was so intrinsically tied to and associated with Richie that Eddie had come to identify it as comfortable. This new smell was decidedly _uncomfortable._

Then it was his jaw, which had gotten wider so that Richie’s square, wide-rim glasses—which were once comical—now framed his face in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but handsome. 

He was taller too, and now, broader. Shoulders almost twice the width of Eddie’s. And his dumb Hawaiian shirts now hung differently. And the sound of his laugh was deeper, and raspier, and the way he said _“Eds”_ sounded different, too.

It sounded different, and it did different things to Eddie than it had ever done before. And that meant something terrible. And that’s why he was crying. 

And Bill wouldn’t understand. And Richie couldn’t. No one could. 

Eddie cries harder than he ever has before that afternoon. So much that he keeps his inhaler in his hand, using it every so often just to help catch his breath. So much that he gets dehydrated quick, and exhausted, and falls asleep before the sun even goes down.

(As Eddie remembers it, coming to terms with it happened in stages that lasted years. For a while, he was upset. So upset some days it was hard to speak to anyone at all, most of all Richie. He could hardly look at him anymore. And he certainly couldn’t look at his mother.

And then, one day, maybe because he had gotten a little older, or maybe because he was just too exhausted to keep fighting it, things just changed.)

** October 9, 1991 **

“If you knock that bucket of suds over, Tozier, I swear to God, I’ll be serving time for homicide.”

Mike just grins white teeth. “Stanley, come on now, you wouldn’t last a day in the can.”

Richie is ignoring both of them. As the boys all wash Mike’s granddad's car in the farmhouse driveway, Richie’s reached into the knob on the dashboard and cranked the radio up to full blast, while “You Sexy Thing” sounds out through the rolling cornfields.

Richie is…maybe giving the car a lap dance.

Bill, next to Eddie, is laughing as Richie crawls up onto the car hood and rolls around in the suds and water left from Ben’s sponge. 

And Eddie is stood there watching, and Richie takes his glasses off and flips his hair around in a way that elongates the muscles on his neck, and Eddie’s throat’s gone a little dry but not in the way that might’ve had him reaching for his inhaler a month ago. And he’s fine. Really, he’s fine. Because he’s really looking at Richie, and nothing terrible has happened. He hasn’t burst into flames. The ground hasn’t opened up and swallowed him whole. 

Richie catches his eyes, and grins—no, beams—and starts shirking off the purple polka-dot button down he’s got on over his t-shirt.

Eddie’s tongue darts out subconsciously, and wets his lips. 

That’s when Richie takes the bucket of water and suds and dumps it right over his head, like it’s a wet t-shirt contest. And Stan starts chasing him around the yard with a sponge, swinging at him with force, and Richie is yelping and screaming, jumping in the air to dodge, and Bill finally runs after Stan and tackles him to the ground.

Eddie smiles, for the first time in a long time.

The following week, Eddie spends listening to the _Footloose_ soundtrack that Richie got him on cassette. He spends it figuring out a better way to comb and gel his hair—one that won't get his mom in a fit but that looks more adult than what he’d had before. He spends it doodling Richie’s name on the margins of his notepad while he’s stuck indoors studying on rainy days. He spends it—when his mom is out of the house for a doctor’s appointment—digging up her old, saved fashion magazines out of the garage that he’d always been curious about and idly flipping through them, stashing them under his bed when he hears the front door open. 

One day hanging out at Bill’s house, Eddie picks up a bottle of cologne off his shelf and sniffs it, commenting on how he likes it. Bill tells him to take it home with him—it’s old, and he’s not using it anymore anyway.

He gets a new bookbag for school, too—one that doesn’t make him look like such a dork. A brown messenger bag he sees in a storefront window.

Stan raises more than a few eyebrows at Eddie’s change of tune. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” he says one day while they’re walking down the hall together between third and fourth period, “it’s just that I was kind of worried for a while, and now you’re all…”

“What?” Eddie asks innocently, like he doesn’t know.

“Different,” Stan says. “It’s nice. You’re happier.”

Eddie just sort of smiles. Then Stan leans in and sniffs. “You smell good, too. Is that Bill’s cologne?”

Before he can answer, he and Stan are both halted in their tracks by the tall, lanky, brown-haired figure standing in their way. 

Richie swallows.

“Hey, Eds.”

Eddie looks up through his lashes. “Hey, Richie.”

“Yeah,” comes a dry voice from Eddie’s right. “Hi to you, too, Rich.”

Richie’s eyes dart briefly over. “Yeah, hey, Stan.” Then back to Eddie. “So, listen, Sarah’s staying at her boyfriend’s tonight, and my mom’s working late, and uh, well, I was gonna order a pizza and watch _Spaceballs_ again ‘cause I ain’t got shit else to do on a Friday, and I guess I just didn’t wanna do it alone if I didn’t have to. You, uh, wanna come over?”

Eddie blinks and smiles. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The corner of Richie’s mouth lifts up in a grin to rival the sun. “’Kay. Cool. Uh. I’ll see ya. Later, then.”

“Later.”

Richie pretty nearly skips away—pumping his fist halfway down the hall, probably thinking Eddie and Stan can’t still see him.

_“Oh,_ _God,_” Stan groans next to him.

** April 25, 1993 **

(It’s a couple of years and a combination of stuff that brings about the next stage. The increasing pressure from his mom cracking down, her increasing disapproval of Richie and less-than-subtly communicated fears that her son is slipping away from her, which Eddie can’t bring himself to care about anymore. The rumors about Richie’s promiscuity that Eddie would rather not believe but sort of can’t help it—he’s seen Richie making out with girls before—Sadie Meyer once against the school wall by the bike racks outside and Hannah Brewer at that party Bill threw last year. Which, of course, brings about their first big fight. Which…changes things, to say the least. And then, finally—)

Eddie’s shoulder brushes against Richie’s as he reaches into the Toziers’ kitchen cabinet for the box of Oreos he knows is in there. Richie sits on top of the counter, swinging his long legs idly.

“Hey, so…” Eddie starts, still not quite sure how to bring it up. But it was now or never.

“So…?”

“So, my mom’s gonna be out of town prom weekend.”

Eddie’s digging his hand into the Oreos and pretending like he finds the box of cookies really interesting so he doesn’t have to look at Richie’s face when he says it. But he tears his eyes up for a brief glance in Richie’s direction—and Richie’s face has gone as red as a beet.

Eddie wonders why as he looks back down at the cookies. Wonders if maybe Richie hears the implications that Eddie was hoping he’d hear. Wonders if he’s thinking about it.

Richie coughs; clears his throat. “Yeah?”

Eddie swallows. “Yeah. House to myself.”

There is a long, long, _long_ stretch of silence.

“Um…” Eddie starts again. “And since neither of us are going to prom, I figured we could—”

“I’m going to prom.” Richie blurts it out quickly—so fast Eddie almost missed it.

“…What?”

“Bethany Kowalski asked me. So, I’m going.”

It’s like the world stops spinning. And Eddie’s got tunnel vision, and eyes clouded with red.

“…Eds?”

“Bethany Kowalski,”

“Yeah?”

“…asked you to prom.”

“That’s right.”

“Bethany Kowalski asked you to prom.”

“Okay, this is getting a little freaky. Eds? You alright? Did I break you? Please say something that’s not just—”

“Bethany Kowalski asked you to prom, so you’re going with Bethany Kowalski. To prom.” He spits it out—the way he says it so forceful that Eddie hardly recognizes his own voice.

“Jesus fuck. Yeah, Eds. I am.”

Eddie breathes through his nose like a fucking bull in a fighting ring. He tries to calm the flames threatening to shoot out the side of his face.

He breathes sharp. 

“…Okay.”

“Wh—okay? Is that—is that a fuckin’ problem? Why are you acting so weird?”

“I’m not acting weird,” he says evenly.

“My pink puckered asshole you’re not acting weird!”

“Richie, gross.”

But then Richie takes one hand and shoves him by the shoulder—not hard, but with enough force to make a point. And Eddie startles at the push, staring down at his shoulder and the hand that shoved it like he can’t quite believe it.

“You’ve been like this for fucking months—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Richie demands.

“Like what, Richie? What have I been like?” Eddie starts spitting the words back in his face again—as mean and as bitter as he can.

Richie is silent—and, honestly, looks a little scared.

“Answer the fucking question, what have I been like?”

“I don’t know! Just—”

Eddie drops the box of Oreos down on the counter suddenly with a _crunch_ and starts to walk out of the kitchen. “Never mind. Just leave it.”

“Eds—” Richie grabs his arm. Eddie shakes it off violently, and without a moment’s hesitation.

“Leave it!”

There’s something that passes over Richie’s face like hurt—like really well-masked pain. A twist of his lips—something in his eyes. Eddie pretends he didn’t see it.

“Aw, Eds, look, we’ll find you a hot date, buddy, don’t worry, I promise we’ll—”

Richie stops himself—interrupted by the way Eddie looks back at him. Because Eddie is openly searching Richie’s face now. He’s trying to figure out how he could do it. How he could say that. 

Eddie pretends too, in his own way. He knows it. But up until now, he had thought he and Richie both pretended the same. That there was a line. A clear set of silent rules they both followed. There was stuff they didn’t say. Stuff that went unspoken. 

But they never lied to each other.

“What?”

“Don’t _fucking_ call me that.”

And though he thought it was one of those things that just went unspoken, that Eddie’s never really meant it before—this time, he means it.

(The stage of Eddie _“dealing with it”_ that follows the news about Bethany Kowalski doesn’t come about as organically as the others. It’s more of a conscious decision.)

He’s angry for about a week. But he knows he’s really been angry for longer—that it’s just all been building, and he’s finally had about fucking enough.

In a box in the back of his closet that only he has the key to, Eddie keeps a few things. One is the gauze from the cast he got on his arm that one summer, that Greta had ruined but Beverly had fixed. Another is a photograph to match the one he gave Richie for their five-year anniversary. The last thing is a carton of cigarettes that Bev had given him the day before she left, and said, _“you should live a little,”_ which are words he has never forgotten.

He pulls out the cigarettes, closes the box, opens his bedroom window and climbs out of it onto the roof, shutting it almost all the way closed behind him.

The cigarettes are very stale, but he still remembers how to smoke one. Beverly had been impressed with him the first time, with eyebrows that looked like they were threatening to shoot off her forehead in shock.

They’re stale, but he can still remember why he likes the taste. And now, more so than when he’d been thirteen, he has distinct appreciation for the way it _feels _to smoke. There’s a rush of calm so serene it’s like a breath of fresh air (an ironic metaphor, he knows). A slight burning that's just enough to remind him he's alive and isn't too much. And he feels powerful. And rebellious. And kind of hot. And really, really good.

The following week, Eddie spends cutting up some pairs of his jeans. And figuring out how to put considerably less gel in his hair and still make it look good—he settles on a roughed-up coif that will definitely give his mom an aneurysm. It’s perfect.

He manages to nab a couple hand-me-downs from Bill—band t-shirts, a few belts and one beat-up old leather jacket. Bill went through his angry, rebellious phase last year and has since moved on, which is how Eddie knows exactly who to grab stuff from. The rest he picks up at local thrift shops with some money he has saved up from working at the diner.

He waits to debut his new look at Mike’s Loser prom.

It gets, more or less, the reaction he had hoped for. Maybe a little more.

Richie doesn’t hide well the hard-on he sports after their first conversation, before sprinting inside the house after mumbling something about the bathroom. There are a few overwhelming moments while Richie is gone that Eddie doesn’t know how to handle _that _revelation. At first it’s briefly shocking. Then it’s too much to think about. Then it’s…not. Then he decides he likes it. Likes it a lot. Maybe too much.

It’s taken one night, a knife to a pair of jeans, a little less gel and a cheap denim jacket, and suddenly his and Richie’s relationship has an entirely new dynamic of power. It makes him feel kind of like smoking a cigarette feels—powerful, and rebellious, and hot.

And so the line about the cigarette, it just kind of…comes out.

For the first time, Richie looks at him with no pretense. No pretending. Just plain, raw _want._ And if he thinks Eddie doesn’t see it, doesn’t _know_, without shadow of a doubt, he’s wrong. Dead wrong. 

It’s something totally new. Completely unexplored territory. And it’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and Eddie feels like he’s high the whole night. Not _living a little—_ living all at once. When Richie looks at him from across the dance floor, pulls him in to dance to that _wonderful_ song, runs his hands all over his body. And Eddie leans into it and feels alive, and there’s an electricity between them that is so different from whatever was there before. 

And that night, Eddie thinks it changes everything. 

It doesn’t.

And it all ends, horribly, on the kissing bridge one week later, looking down at the tape shoved into his hands, as Richie storms drunkenly and angrily away—as the sound of Eddie’s own strangled breath overtakes everything else.

** NOW **

“It’s been a little while since our last session.”

Eddie shuffles in the chair a bit, still trying to get comfortable and failing.

“Yeah,” he begins. “Last week, I, uh—some close friends of mine were getting married, so I had to cancel.”

Monica nods, and smiles a bit. “That’s great, Eddie. But it’s been at least a month since we spoke last. What about before then?”

“I, uh…um. Work.”

Monica nods—slower this time—wearing her doubt plainly on her sleeve. “I see.”

“You know how it is.”

“I do. How was the wedding, by the way? Did you have fun?”

Eddie coughs. “Yeah—uh, some.”

“Some?”

“Yeah, you know. Parties aren’t, uh…aren’t really my scene.”

“I just find that strange. You speak about your friends with such care and affection. They’ve been the highlight of our conversations since you got back in touch with them. Now two of them get married, and you hardly enjoy their wedding?”

“No, it’s—” Eddie doesn’t fully know what it is. Or hadn’t fully thought about it—hadn’t wanted to. “I’m happy for them. Overjoyed, really. God, they’re made for each other. They’re perfect.”

Monica folds her hands over her crossed knee. “So, what do you think’s troubling you?”

“Troubling me?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“There sounds like there’s a _‘but’_ coming.”

Eddie sighs deep. He can’t look at her when he says it.

“All my friends, they…they’re doing these amazing things with their lives. And I’m…I’m…”

“Unhappy?”

Eddie blinks. 

“No, I’m—I wouldn’t say I—I mean, it’s not that I’m—Well, I guess, maybe I am—Maybe I…Yeah. Yeah, maybe I’m unhappy.”

“It’s understandable, Eddie. You’ve been through a lot. And I’m not convinced you’ve fully recovered from the bout of depression your injury caused you, as you say you have.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, but nods, hunched over and staring at his hands.

“You’re watching your friends accomplish things that make them happy. And you feel as though you’re stuck; left behind. Unable to do that for yourself—unable to make yourself happy.”

Eddie glances back up at her.

“Do you even know what happiness would look like for yourself? Can you imagine that?” she asks him.

Eddie thinks. Eddie thinks very hard. Shuts his eyes, even. Soon, the thinking makes him upset. He tightens his jaw, and shakes his head.

“Eddie,” Monica starts. “Eddie, I need to know why you stopped coming in for your appointments.”

He swallows. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap. 

He tells her the truth.

“I was worried you were going to tell me to leave my wife.”

Monica blinks. “Why did you think I would tell you that?”

“Because you…because you kept implying that she was somehow just my way of…of replacing my mom. That our marriage wasn’t…wasn’t healthy. That I didn’t marry her for the right reasons.”

“Eddie, I’m not a marriage counselor. I wouldn’t tell you to take any particular action regarding your marriage. But I do think examining your relationship with Myra is crucial. Because I believe outside of our sessions, you try to think about it as little as you possibly can, because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Eddie squints at her; shakes his head. “My marriage doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“I think it does. I think it’s why you can’t bring yourself to be truly happy for your friends. In their happiness, you can’t help but feel inadequate because your own marriage is perhaps a source of deep _unhappiness_.”

He’s still shaking his head. “I don’t…I don’t think that it is.”

“So why did you come back?” Monica asks, cocking her head and peering at him skeptically from over her glasses. “You said you were worried I would advise you to end your marriage, but now you’ve returned. Why?”

He begins looking down again, picking at the dead skin of his cuticles.

“Something happened.”

“Something…?”

“At…at the wedding. Something…something happened at the wedding.”

“Oh?”

“I just…it’s just that saying what it is…out loud, I think it…I think it makes me terrible.”

“I don’t think you’re terrible, Eddie.”

“Yeah, you don’t know what it is yet.”

“I don’t believe you are capable of terrible things,” Monica clarifies. “And besides, my purpose here is not to judge you. It’s to help you.”

Eddie swallows. He nods. He knows that.

“I think I…” he starts, scratching at his hand. “I think I was unfaithful to my wife,” comes out quieter.

“You…_think_ you were?”

“No, I was, it’s just…whether or not I technically cheated on her is still a bit unclear. It’s all…complicated.”

“Okay. Well, why do you _think_ you were unfaithful?”

“I don’t know,” is knee-jerk.

“Eddie,” Monica chastises.

“Okay, I do know. I do know. I don’t love her the way I…it doesn’t…I’m…I’m gay.”

Monica breathes. Eddie breathes.

Eddie thinks he might choke and die. He wishes he still had his inhaler. He wishes he hadn’t burned it up in Mike’s dumb, phony ritual.

“Thank you for telling me this, Eddie,” Monica says, and it’s painfully clear that she means it. “I know that can be a very, very hard thing to verbalize. Thank you for trusting me with this. Am I the only person you’ve told?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I’m pretty sure the other guy knew, too.”

“Oh. Right. Understandable, my apologies.”

“But I’m not—I, uh…I don’t feel right. About what I did. I don’t…”

“Would you say your sexuality is a recent discovery?”

“No, I…I’ve known since I was about fourteen.”

“Eddie,” Monica begins, in a tone Eddie doesn’t like so much. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s going through my mind right now.”

Eddie nods, sadly. 

“I firmly believe this is a decision you must make for yourself,” she says. “But your mother is dead. The hold that she had on you went with her. What’s left is something that is purely psychological, and it is what is keeping you from seeking your own happiness. Something I know you could figure out the path to but refuse to start because it frightens you too much. Because you believe her poison still has a home inside you.”

Eddie is almost hunched completely over in his seat. He tries to breathe deep, the way Monica taught him. He thinks of how it feels to have Richie’s hand on his back.

“…And it certainly does not help that you also feel her presence in your marriage. A marriage you did not even want, but your mother encouraged. Even your career, the way you speak of it…you chose it because it was secure. Because it was safe. Those are words your mother used often—they’re not your words. You describe your marriage in the same way.”

“I know. I know. I know, but I—”

“These are elements of your life that you feel are trapping you—preventing you from being truly happy. Elements that, even though she’s long gone, your mother still has control over. She’s made you believe that you’re stuck here, but you’re not. Your job I think you must keep simply because you don’t believe you could upend your life in that way—don’t think you’re strong enough to start over, even though I know that you are. And I believe part of why you haven’t taken action in ending your marriage yet is because you remain terrified of what your wife would do if she discovered you were gay.”

His head starts hurting. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to think.

“And I think it terrifies you because you know exactly what your mother would have done, if she had known.”

Eddie mumbles something into the palm of his hand.

“What was that?” Monica asks.

“I think she did know.”

“I…see.”

“I think she knew before I did,” Eddie says, sitting up finally and letting his eyes refocus. “A part of her—even if she’d keel over before she admitted it—knew. Around when I was nine or ten, she pulled me into the kitchen and sat me down, and told me that if I wasn’t careful about the sorta of people I spoke to; hung around—the _‘wrong kind’_ , you know—that somehow I’d end up with AIDS. She told me—in pretty excruciating detail—that I’d suffer all these horrible, awful symptoms, and that it’d take years, but that it’d be a death sentence. That’s what the word ‘ _gay’_ meant to me, for almost all of my childhood. A death sentence.”

“When you were—”

“Nine or ten.”

Monica swallows. “That’s an awful thing to scare into a child.”

“She warned me against everything—woman was a hypochondriac, kept me living in a bubble. But the AIDS crisis…that was something different. It came up a lot. More than anything else she’d go on about. She pulled me out of school for a week; wrote letters of protest to the school board because there was a rumor going around that one of my teachers…that he was gay. Guess it didn’t matter if it was true. She got him fired, and I went back to school.”

“And later, when I knew that I…I wished I didn’t. Scared the hell outta me. When I was a kid, I…you know, I should’ve known then, but you know how it is. You don’t think about what it means. You know, it’s all innocent. In my head, I couldn’t even think the word. It wasn’t that _word,_ it was just the feelings. Even later, after I figured it out, the feelings eventually I was fine with. Because that part felt good. But what— _who_ I was, couldn’t verbalize it outright, couldn’t…couldn’t think it.”

“Feelings…for other boys?”

“For…” _(Wind in his hair—hand over his hard-on—the way he’d smile, all teeth—laughed like you were the only person that ever made him laugh like that—kissing, and kissing—I have everything to say to you—bravest person I’ve ever met—you know why I put the fucking song on the goddamn tape.) _“For…yeah.”

“But eventually those feelings soured too, didn’t they? It’s what led to you marrying your wife.”

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows. _(Eds, stop—doesn’t mean what you think—I’m leaving—had sex with Bethany Kowalski—not a fucking faggot—I like girls.) _“Yeah, they soured.”

Monica nods. She sits back in her chair. 

“Eddie, I want you to know—truly know—that you are free to be the person you wish to be. And you are a very capable, very resilient human being. You are allowed to start fresh with your life—apart from the trauma which took so much of it from you. And you’re allowed to do that without guilt.”

** May 1, 1993 **

_“The phone rings in the middle of the night; my father yells, ‘What you gonna do with your life?’ Oh daddy dear, you know you’re still number one, but girls—”_

_“Eddie? Eddie-bear, is that…is that smoke I’m smelling?”_

Eddie jolts up in bed; coughs—nearly swallowing his cigarette.

“No!” he shouts back. “No—_fuck—_no!”

He quickly opens his window and tosses the cigarette and the rest of the pack out into the backyard. He’d have to go and pick them up later. He’d bought them off some senior guy, and they weren’t cheap.

He leaves the window open, to ventilate out the smell.

_“I’m coming upstairs!”_

“No, you—you really don’t need to—_shit.”_

She’s opening his door before he can even think about sliding into his desk chair.

“Why was this door closed?” she asks. “Why do I smell smoke?”

Eddie shrugs. “I honestly don’t know, Ma. You know that’s the first sign of a stroke. You should get yourself looked at.”

His mother frowns—and it’s an awful sight.

“Your door shouldn’t ever be closed, Eddie.”

“You’re right, Ma. Sorry. I forgot.”

She looks at him; frowns deeper. “I thought you were studying tonight.”

“I am. I was just…taking a break.”

It’s a terrible excuse. None of his books are even open—his desk is empty. His boombox is still playing Cyndi Lauper. His mother narrows her eyes some more, like with every passing second she’s noticing another thing out of place.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

Eddie looks down at himself—looks down at the jacket and the tight-fitting, ripped jeans. The clothes he wore because Richie would look at him in them and even though he’d try, wouldn’t be able to hide the dirty things he’d be thinking. 

_Shit._

“Uh—I, uh—”

“I didn’t know you owned clothes like that. I didn’t buy you those. Where did you—”

“No,” he tells her, coolly. “I bought them. I have a job.”

“That money is supposed to be going towards your college fund.”

“And most of it is. I only keep a little for myself, just—"

“So you’ve been lying to me?”

Eddie gulps.

“What else have you been lying about?”

“Nothing! Nothing, Ma, honest, I—”

Her eyes widen. She grips the door frame harder. 

“Are you going _out _somewhere tonight? And didn’t tell me?”

“No, I—” He swallows. “I just thought, after I was done studying, you know, I’d…I’d maybe head over to Mike’s party.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was going to tell you,” he starts to tell her, even though he was not. “I was, I—what?”

“You’re not going to a party. Not tonight, and not at the Hanlon boy’s house.”

“It’s Saturday night, Ma, and it’s not like I’m asking to go party every weekend. It’s not even a party, really, it’s just a small thing, you know—”

“Is Richie Tozier going to be there?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His back teeth grind against each other—so hard he hears it.

“Yes.”

“You’re not going,” she says, and has already turned around to leave.

“That’s so fucking unfair.” He says it before he remembers not to, and his mother freezes before she reaches the stairs.

_“Excuse me?”_

“I said that’s_ fucking _unfair. I never ask you for anything—”

He stands, and Sonia Kaspbrak storms back into the room, with all the fury that Eddie’s ever seen her wear and more.

“I will rinse your mouth out with soap, young man, I’ll—”

“You hate Richie for no reason, just because you got it into your head that he broke my arm somehow—which he didn’t. And don’t think for a second I don’t know why you don’t like me going over to Mike’s.”

“You think you’re so smart. You think you know—you _don’t _know. Don’t know the things I protect you from—”

“What? What do you protect me from? Fucking asthma that I don’t have? A thousand fucking diseases I’ll never get? Friends who give more of a shit about me than you do?”

“Eddie. Eddie-bear, stop it.” She’s got this look on her face now—like she might cry—that he could almost feel bad for her. Probably would, if he were still thirteen. But he’s immune to it all, now. Most of it, anyway. The old tricks—her unchanged, tired routine. It’s just exhausting. And sad. And he doesn’t have time for it.

“You’re sick, Ma. Not me—you. And you need help.”

Just as quickly as they appeared on her face, the tears go away. They’re replaced by redness, and anger, and everything that tells him that none of it was real in the first place. It was all just for show.

“Ever since Dad, you—” Eddie tries, but Sonia’s already boiled over.

“Your _father_ was a wonderful, angelic man. And he would not recognize you today.”

Eddie breathes in sharp through his nose, and braces himself for it.

Sonia waves her hand, gesturing to Eddie’s clothes. “What, in your…these…tight jeans, and your _hair,_ you look like a—”

“What?” he shouts. “What do I look like, Ma?”

“Oh, don’t make me say it!” And the tears are back as she stomps her foot. “Don’t make me say that word, Eddie!”

“Get out. Get the hell out.”

“Do you want to know what I think? What I _really_ think?”

He’s crossed the room to his bedroom door and opened it wide for her. He points out into the hall.

“No. Leave.”

“I don’t think, if I hadn’t come up here, that you would have told me you were leaving tonight. I think you would have snuck out. Snuck out to see that Tozier boy. And you—”

“_Leave,_ Ma!”

“—you’ve been using all this foul language, and dressing so differently, and smoking! Smoking, and lying about it, to my face! And I know—”

“Listen to me, I don’t care what you know. Get out of my room right now or I swear to Christ, I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that Sonia Kaspbrak has a queer for a son.”

(…it’s what he would have liked to have said. But it’s not real.

It’s sounds better, when he imagines it now. Makes him sound tough; brave. Makes it sound like something Bev or Richie might’ve done. 

It sounds a lot better than:)

“Is Richie Tozier going to be there?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His back teeth grind against each other—so hard he hears it.

“Yes.”

“You’re not going,” she says, and has already turned around to leave.

Eddie’s shoulders fall. As small as he can, he says:

“Okay, Ma.”

Sonia, at the door, turns back to look at him one last time, pleased.

“I love you, Eddie-Bear.”

Eddie nods.

“Say you love me back.”

He swallows. “I love you too, Ma.”

She smiles, terribly. And leaves.

And half an hour later, he’s downstairs telling her he’s turning in for the night. And maybe twenty minutes after that, like the coward he wishes he wasn’t, he’s snuck out of his bedroom window, picked up his pack of cigs, and is well on his way to Mike’s house.

** NOW **

He follows her the following week on a Saturday morning—on one of her “extra yoga classes”. 

Her car doesn’t pull into a studio—a fucking shocker. It pulls into some breakfast diner. He does a couple loops around the block so she doesn’t see him park. 

After he pulls into the parking lot, he allows himself three deep breaths, and no more, before he jumps out of the car. 

He marches in through the front door as the bell above it chimes violently—as the hostess offers a warm, _“can I help you?”_ that he barely hears as he flies by—as he picks her bottle-blonde head out of the crowded restaurant that sits across from her impeccably toned, grey-fox, Spanish yoga instructor, and he takes the white envelope he’s got in a death grip, and he slams it down on the table in front of her, rattling all the plates and coffee mugs. 

Myra jumps and squeals out in shock as her hand flies to her mouth, and if he didn’t have tunnel vision, it might have bothered him more that the tables around them all get quiet, fast.

“E-Eddie.”

He stares her down, and breathes through his nose with control.

“Sweetheart,” Myra says, apparent that she’s choosing every word with caution. “What are you…what…what is this?” She looks once down at the envelope.

“I’m serving you.”

She blinks.

“I’m sorry?”

“They’re divorce papers, Myra.”

That’s when she seems to be frozen in place. Mouth half-open, still trying to process the reality of the situation. They stare each other down for a long, oddly satisfying length of time.

Then, in a tone of voice he’s never heard her use:

_“What?”_

“You need to talk to a lawyer. Decide if you want to ignore the filing or answer it. It doesn’t matter to me what you do, but there’s a deadline, so you need to do it now.”

And, again, louder: 

_“What!?”_

The voice of her yoga instructor comes from Eddie’s right: “Myra, dear, calm down. You’re causing a scene.”

Eddie doesn’t turn to look at him. Not even to thank him, which is probably what he really should be doing.

Myra clears her throat; tries to collect and compose herself. She looks between Eddie and the man sitting with her a few times—then, finally, back at Eddie.

“On what grounds?” comes out so very tightly—tight like the way she’s gripping her coffee mug. She spares one more glance at the man across from her. Lowly and through gritted teeth, she asks: “Cheating?”

Eddie just looks back at her. Allows her to worry for just another moment longer, because frankly, she deserves it. Then he shakes his head with the ghost of a smile.

“Irreconcilable differences.”

“Oh?” she asks, her voice gone high, like he’s used to it doing when she’s very angry and trying rather poorly to hide it. “And what are those?”

“Well, for one, I’m gay.”

If he had to guess, he thinks what happens is that Myra grips the mug so tight so suddenly that it flies out of her hands, and spills hot coffee all over the table and into her yoga instructor’s lap, who swears and leaps out of his seat. Myra lets loose a couple expletives, too. Eddie manages to save the papers, grabbing them at the last minute.

“And we hate each other,” Eddie continues. “I think that just about covers it.”

As she reaches for a napkin to clean up what little she can, she’s also looking back up at Eddie like she can’t comprehend what’s unfolding.

“Wh—wha—Eddie, you, wh—are you—”

He takes the envelope and places it in her lap now, resting a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“One day, I really think you’ll thank me for this.”

And with that, he leaves the restaurant, and doesn’t look back.

On the car ride home, he cranks the stereo up to max, rolls down the windows of the SUV, and screams along at the top of his lungs while he pounds his fist against the roof of his car to the beat.

_“PANAMA! PANAMA-A! PANAMA!”_

** July 17, 1993 **

It is two months after prom night and one month before Richie will leave that Eddie finds the carving on the bridge.

It happens by accident. He doesn’t go looking for it. It’s just that he goes back to the bridge a lot, because he’s not afraid of it anymore. He used to be. And now, it’s like he can’t remember why. It’s more of a feeling that he does it out of necessity—because even though they’re not talking, he has to remind himself of the thing that Richie did for him. Like the song that now plays in his head, over and over.

When he finally sees it, he forgets how to breathe. But it’s not bad this time. It’s not scary. It’s wonderful.

His finger runs over the grooves of it, feeling that it’s real. 

The thing is, it didn’t even have to be Richie that did it. It could’ve been anyone, he supposes, and it wouldn’t have mattered, because it was _R + E, _and that meant them. Even though it was Richie. And somehow, he knew that. Just like what the song on the tape meant. He knew that, too.

The next day, he comes back to the bridge with a nail file he steals from underneath his mom’s bathroom sink. 

And Eddie carves an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. My pinned post is a collection of BLM resources, including places to donate and petitions to sign. Wear a fucking mask. Protect others around you, and please stay safe.


	7. Lovesong, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this is it.  
I'm going to once again take the time to thank any and all of you who reached out either in the comments or through tumblr to offer feedback and words of encouragement. This is the most overwhelmingly positive reaction I've had to anything I've written, and I truly take so much joy from seeing how my writing effects people. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for that.  
I'm so excited to be finishing this fic, and I'm excited to share this with you. So please enjoy.

**now**

The pieces all come to make sense to Richie suddenly and all at once, early the next morning after the wedding. In the groggy place between sleeping and waking, the revelation feels like the gates of heaven opening wide, and this monstrous fucking weight being lifted off his shoulders.

Because the solution to all of it, in that moment, just smacks him across the face with how painfully fucking simple it is.

What follows would, if he had the time to slow down and think about it, remind him of the ending of a romantic comedy—grabbing his wallet and keys and racing out his front door without so much as running a comb through his hair or changing out of the monkey suit he crashed in. All while his heart’s beating at about a thousand beats per minute and his life starts to feel like one of those CSNY love ballads that somehow seems to have all the answers.

It’s around 5am when he slides behind the driver’s seat of his car and within minutes, he’s burning rubber down the freeway, yelling at Siri to _“Fucking call Bev, woman!”._

_“Calling Benjamin Hanscom: Work.”_

“No, _Bev!_ Beverly! Beverly Marsh! Call _Beverly Marsh!_ Beverly fucking—you know what, whatever. Never mind. It’s fine.”

When Ben answers the phone, he sounds completely wrecked and disoriented and like he’s only got half a voice left.

_“Richie?”_ there’s a yawn. _“What—what time is it?”_

“Time for you to wake up and smell the coffee, sunshine. Listen, did Eddie ever happen to mention to you which hotel he was shacked up in?”

_“Uh—um, I don’t think so, why—”_

“Okay, whatever, you’re no help at all—listen, just give the phone to your wife, alright.”

_“Uh, she’s—she’s still sleeping, Richie, what—”_

“Well then, wake her the fuck up! This is life or death here, Haystack!”

_“Wh—is Eddie okay?”_

“Yeah, he’s fine, probably—just do it, would you?”

_“Come on, Richie, it’s five in the fucking morning after our wedding—”_

“Hey,_ asshole_, remember that time I had my bags packed and ready to leave Derry, and you were all, _‘no, Richie, please stay, you’re so strong and brave and we’ll all surely be murdered without you_’, and then I did?”

_“Except you didn’t!”_

“Okay, well, but in the end I did! Anyway, what fucking counts is that I listened to you then when you said it was a fucking _life or death_ emergency, and I’d really fucking appreciate it if you returned the favor.”

Ben sighs._ “Fine. Give me a minute, okay? I gotta do it gentle, else she’ll bite my head off.”_

“That’s cute. That’s what black widow spiders do after they mate. It’s called sexual cannibalism.”

When Bev finally gets on, she sounds just as awful—and decidedly even grumpier—than Ben.

_“Richard…”_ it’s a (somewhat) gentle warning.

“Bevvie, honey, I swear, it’s important. I need to know the address of the hotel Eddie’s in. Then you can go back to sleeping, or having sex with your Ken doll.”

Bevvie’s tone shifts then. Richie hears the change, and the soft, delighted alarm in:

_“Richie, are you…?”_

He swallows.

“Hey. Bev. The address.”

She clears her throat and sounds altogether more awake than before.

_“Right. Yeah. Gimme one second, Richie, I’ll have it for you, okay? One second.”_

It’s spitting rain and the sky has turned shades of orange by the time Richie pulls up to the Hilton, turns off the ignition, and sprints inside through the rotating doors.

Then at the front desk: “Hi there, I’m looking for an Eddie Kaspbrak—”

“One moment.”

Acrylic fingernails tap against the keyboard while Richie stands there bouncing his leg and rocking up and down on two feet.

“Looks like he checked out about an hour ago.”

“An hou—”

He chokes it out while he starts stepping away with his head in his hands. Richie takes a sharp breath in and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers like willing away a migraine.

“Uh, thank—thank you.” He waves a hand at the front desk lady, then leaves out the front door again.

Richie climbs back in his car.

He sits, breathing heavy, as the rain falls.

He slams his hands against the steering wheel once. Then, again, because it feels good. And over and over, occasionally grazing the horn.

_“Fuck!_ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! _God,_ fucking—”

(Then, days later:)

_“No. No, we can’t. I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen.”_

“O—okay…”

_“We…we can’t, Richie. We can’t do that again.”_

“But—”

_“Ever. I mean it.”_

**then**

At the end of the summer of 1993, on the long drive to Portland, it plays from the static-ridden speakers of his beat-up old pick-up. Time is measured then by the speed with which the streams of tears staining his cheeks dry in the summer heat. The more they fade, the farther away from Derry he gets, and the process of forgetting is like the song. Quiet, and haunting, and fading out at the end.

_“Whenever I'm alone with you,_

_You make me feel like I am free again._

_Whenever I'm alone with you,_

_You make me feel like I am clean again.”_

_“However far away,_

_I will always love you._

_However long I stay,_

_I will always love you.”_

_“Whatever words I say,_

_I will always love you._

_I will always love you…”_

(Richie remembers forgetting.)

**now**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The door to Bill’s apartment opens after a few long seconds with Bill behind it, still dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants and wiping his hands on a kitchen rag.

“R-Richie?”

Bill looks him up and down with something between horror and pity.

“Y-you look like _shit.”_

“Yeah? What’s your excuse? It’s noon.”

“W—I-I, uh—”

Richie lowers his voice a little and leans into the doorframe as he rubs at the five-o’clock stubble on his face.

“Look, I’m gonna be honest with you, alright, I was halfway to a bar before my, uh, what do you call it…moral compass kicked in, so this is just kinda where I ended up. Can I just…I dunno, sit at your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee for a hot minute?”

Bill swallows and nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course, Richie. C-c-come on in.”

Bill’s put a hot mug in his hand before he knows it, and is right back to flipping an omelet on the stove. He’d been all hospitable and offered Richie some, but he’d staunchly refused. Bill plates it, grabs a fork, then turns around to face Richie while eating.

They stay in the silence for a little bit.

“Thanks,” Richie mumbles into his mug before a sip.

Bill grunts his acknowledgement, mouth full of food.

It’s a few more hungry bites and long, silent beats before Bill is tearing his eyes away from the plate to Richie and is studying him carefully.

“So, you gonna tell me w-what’s going on?”

Richie sighs; puts his mug down on the granite countertop. He pinches the bridge of his nose again, because the stress of the past few days has really started to feel like the worst fucking headache.

“I, uh…just got some bad news last night.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yea—well, I mean, no, not…not really. Not…really.”

Bill stares at him. When it’s probably apparent that Richie isn’t gonna divulge any more, Bill pushes his plate aside and leans forward on the counter a bit.

“I, uh…h-h-heard that Eddie flew back to N-New York Sunday morning.”

Richie nods a little, refusing to look at him and pulling his lips between his teeth, trying not to fall into the black pit of despair that’s been tagging him since he was fucking _born,_ it feels like.

Bill continues. “Y-you, uh…You guys okay?”

The nods of his head devolve into fervent shaking of his head, and Richie’s crying in the middle of the day sitting at Bill’s kitchen counter before he’s got a chance to mentally berate himself about it.

Bill reaches out; grabs him by where the shoulder meets the neck.

“H-hey—hey, hey, Richie—”

Richie can’t really bear to look at him, but he tries.

“Whatever it is, i-it’s gonna be fine, a-alright? It’s—”

“Nah, n-nah, no, nah, it’s not, Bill, it’s really—”

“What? What? W-w-what is it, what—”

“I fucked up, alright? I fucked—I fucked up. I fucked—” Richie slams his palms flat against the counter. Bill leans back.

“And I don’t think…I just don’t think I’m supposed to be happy. Okay? I just honestly don’t think that’s a viable fucking option for me, or was ever supposed to be, and I’ve just got to accept that, and that’s fine, you know? That’s—”

“What’s going on in here?”

Mike stands in the (now open) bedroom doorway and is fastening the ties on his robe. Bill freezes a little bit. Richie takes one moment to take in_ that_ little gold nugget of information before starting to wipe at his eyes with his thumb out of embarrassment.

“Well. Shit.”

Bill coughs. “Richie, u-uh, isn’t supposed to be h-happy, I think. The universe is against him.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Mike nods once and makes his way to the percolator.

“Yeah, that’s about all you missed, Mikey,” Richie tells him, still sniffling. “Say, how was your tour of Bill’s bedroom? Is it nice in there? Bed comfy?”

The look Bill gives him could strike him dead.

Mike just chuckles as he pours his coffee.

“I’ll say.”

Richie makes a noise in the very back of his throat. “You know, it’s great how the two of you are getting laid on the regular and living in domestic bliss, but I’d appreciate it if for the sake of those of us who are romantically challenged, you wouldn’t rub it in my face.”

Bill makes a big show of rolling his eyes. “Y-you’re exhausting, Richie, you know that?”

And then, a bit quieter—more serious—and spoken into his coffee mug, Richie says: “But seriously, though, good for you two. This whole thing has been the shock of my life, giving me fuckin’ gay whiplash, but I’m genuinely happy for you. As happy as I can be right now, anyway.”

Bill offers a small smile. Then—

“I just wish Mike would’ve told me he was into dudes. And to think all this time, we could’ve been makin’ whoopee—”

“Richie, I will k-kick your ass out of my apartment—”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’ll behave.”

Mike chuckles again, leaning against the countertop as he nurses his own coffee.

“In your dreams, Tozier.” He blows on the mug and takes a sip. “What’s all this about, anyway? Eddie again?”

“Pssh. Again? Hell do you mean _again?”_

“Well, whenever you get this bitchy about something, it’s usually about Eddie. Just a hunch.”

“That’s insulting.”

Mike shrugs easily. “It’s the truth.”

Richie screws his mouth up all in thought. After a while, he swallows.

“Yeah, I just, uh…I’ve just been a real dumbass, you know? Like, more so than usual, and uh…it’s like every time I think we might be getting somewhere, you know, like really…really having an honest conversation I just…I just freeze up. A-and I don’t know why, I…it’s so easy for him, you know, to just be open and talk about his feelings ‘n shit like that, and I don’t have the first fucking clue how to…how to be that for him, you know? And I feel so fucking stupid after the fact because I know he thinks I…thinks I don’t give a shit and that couldn’t be further from the truth, you know? It’s just so fuckin’ _fucked,_ man, ‘cause there’s a lot… there’s so much with him that’s just…hard? Hard for me to wrap my head around, because everything I remember now about my fuckin’ childhood—and Eddie fuckin’ especially—is so wrapped up in so much…pain, and fuckin’ misery, and anger, and shit I don’t ever want to have to think about again—but my therapist says it’s important to think about that stuff ‘cause it helps me work through it and move on, and I’m trying, you know? But sometimes I think I just push him away ‘cause it’s easy. And he doesn’t get that, ‘cause he’s not a fuckin’ pussy like I am, you know, he doesn’t run when shit gets hard, you know, he—‘cause he never had that option as a kid, you know? Me, that’s all I did—but him? The hard shit for him was at home, where he fuckin’ lived, hounding him all the time, and he had to deal with that all on his own without anybody fuckin’ helping him his whole goddamn life and—”

Bill blinks at him. “H-he had you, Richie.”

“Did he, though? I mean, what the fuck did I ever do for him? Make fart noises with my armpit behind his mom as she walked away? Sure, you know, and that’s great, but what the fuck’s that gonna do? That’s not a replacement for a dad that’s alive and a mom that’s not batshit nuts. All—all I could do was fuckin’ watch, my whole life, while he—while she put him through fuckin’ hell on earth, and now what the fuck am I doing, huh? Don’t have the balls to tell him how I really feel, or, y’know, just tell him that he’s enough, tell him that he’s worth more than a marriage he doesn’t wanna fuckin’ be in, tell him that he deserves more than a life that makes him miserable—instead I’m just fuckin’ sitting here watching it all happen all-the-fuck over again. And now he’s fucked off back to New York, ‘cause why the fuck not? I never gave him any fuckin’ reason to stay; any reason to think I’m not just another asshole in his life who doesn’t give enough of a shit to do anything but turn a blind fuckin’ eye. And now he won’t talk to me. So, that’s it.”

Mike sets his coffee mug gingerly down on the counter.

“So, what are you still doing here for?”

Richie shakes his head. “Mike, weren’t you listening, man? I’m a pussy, that’s why.”

Mike moves his jaw around while he nods.

“Just sounds like an awful lot of bitching. Considering you seem to already know what needs to happen next.”

Richie opens his mouth, but then shuts it—his brain catching up to him.

Bill’s making a face that says that Mike’s said just about everything that he thinks needs saying.

Richie takes a deep breath; puffs his chest out. He slaps a hand on the table as he gets up.

“Thanks for the coffee, Bill.”

He thinks Bill says something like,_ “Anytime, Richie,”_ but it’s admittedly hard to hear when Richie’s sprinting out of his apartment like a man whose ass has been lit on fire.

**then**

On the front deck of Mike’s farmhouse, at the start of the week which will end with Richie leaving Derry, he and Mike sit in porch chairs with two cold beers in their hands and watch the sun go down.

It’s not as if, of all the Losers, he knows Mike the least. Richie thinks he knows Mike very well, actually. Knows about his dreams of leaving Derry. Knows about the life he wants for himself when he does, and why that’s always mattered so much more than the old farm he’ll inherit one day. Knows about the way Mike seems to know all of them best, and the way he loves his friends so unapologetically, and so openly.

It’s just that he has the most separation from Mike, what with school and all that. Which used to bum him out, but maybe it was sort of a good thing. Or, at least, different in a way that wasn’t bad. It was a different kind of relationship he had with Mike. They had an understanding of one another that was uncomplicated by them seeing each other day-in and day-out, or knowing each other so well that it drove both of them crazy.

That, or maybe Mike was just easier to talk to.

Richie brings his beer to his lips.

“You gonna come see me off before I leave on Friday, Mikey?”

Mike looks at him in the way that Mike looks at everyone—honestly, and directly in the eyes. It’s so much openness that it’s too much—makes Richie uncomfortable every time. He shifts in his seat.

“’Course, Rich. I’ll be there.” Then he smiles a little. “I’ll try to keep that green chip of envy off my shoulder when I do.”

Richie’s shaking his leg, tapping his foot on the deck in a dull, sort of anxious way.

“It’s really eatin’ you up, huh?” he asks him.

“Naw, Rich, I’ll be fine.” Mike smiles in a way that isn’t even sad. “I’ll have my day. Someone’s gotta stay in Derry, anyway. It’s not dead, Richie. I know It’s not. When It comes back, I…I’ll be ready next time.”

“Wh—what do you mean, _‘stay’?_ Mike, you’re—I thought you were leaving, after…after high school?”

Mike just shrugs. “Plans fell through. My grandad, he’s…he’s really sick, Richie. Pretends like he’s not, but…And my uncle’s got a bad back, he can’t work as well as he used to. I just…I’ve got a responsibility to stay. Help them out. I’ve got unfinished business here. Can’t leave yet.”

Richie stares at him—can’t believe how shitty he feels now, for being so excited about leaving. First with Eddie, now…

He runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, Mikey. I’m…that fuckin’ sucks, I’m…I’m sorry.”

Mike makes a face and sips his beer. “It’s not as bad as all that, Rich. I’m fine with it. Just gotta put some stuff on hold for a while, that’s all. I’ll survive. Besides, Derry’s not so bad once you get used to her.”

Richie laughs, big and loud. “Yeah. Alright.”

Mike raises one eyebrow. “You don’t think so?”

Richie looks back at him like a deer caught in headlights. It’s the first he’s ever heard anything like that—especially coming from fuckin’ _Mike?_ No, there was no way. No way in hell it wasn’t a joke.

“No, Mikey. No, I really don’t.”

Mikey looks back at him some more in that horribly piercing way; cocks his head, considering him.

“See, I don’t get that. Without Derry, I’d never have met you all. You and Bill, Eddie, Stan, Ben and Beverly—you guys are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Yeah, well, those are people, Mikey, not the place.”

Mike shakes his head. “Mm, I don’t know. After a while, it all gets bundled up in the same package, doesn’t it? Memories don’t work that way, you know, they don’t make that distinction. When you remember something, you remember all of it. The people, the place, the way the air smelled, the way the wind blew, the…way your first kiss tasted. It’s all one thing. One feeling, that you’ll never get back except in your memories.”

Richie doesn’t know what to say. He just whistles, impressed.

“And here we all thought ol’ Ben was the fuckin’ poet.”

Mike laughs. “Yeah, yeah, you can joke, Richie, but one day, you’re gonna look back and you’re gonna know what I mean. It’s gonna be harder to separate the good from the bad. Just…” Mike thinks. “Just don’t let yourself lose touch with the parts that made it all worth it.”

Richie swallows and looks down at his feet.

“Won’t matter. I won’t remember any of it, anyway.”

Mike sighs. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Maybe not. I guess if all we can do is enjoy what’s right now…view’s pretty nice.”

Richie looks out to where the orange fields meet the sun, glowing with its reflection. He sees how the sky, painted with a thousand colors, looks like the way the best things in his life made him feel. The way it looks like Bev’s hair, and Stan’s friendship. The way it looks like the song Eddie loves.

He’d like to remember this moment with Mike, he thinks. If he ever thinks of Derry again after he’s gone, he’d like to remember this first. It might make everything else alright.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “You got me there, Mikey.”

**now**

“Yeah, so, what exactly do you mean when you say, _‘he’s gone’?_ Like, did he run out for a pack of gum, did he pass away peacefully in the night? What?”

The red-eye flight was long, and first class was booked so he took coach where he didn’t get a wink of fuckin’ sleep, and it was his fuckin’ luck that just as the Xanax was now wearing off, Richie now had to endure another conversation with Myra Kaspbrak, who he was frankly amazed had not yet slammed the front door in his face.

“I mean he left. Three days ago. Packed a bag and skipped town,” she tells him.

“I’m sorry—_a_ bag? As in _one?_ Singular? No, no, no—clearly, we’re not talking about the same Eddie Kaspbrak. Short man. Dark hair. Owns a fanny pack.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. He was packed and gone within an hour after we got home from brunch on Saturday.”

“Well, where the hell did he go?”

“I have no idea,” Myra bites. “I thought you’d know. Lord knows you’ve spent more time with him than I have ever since you and your friends put a hole in his chest.”

“Alright, I’m gonna ignore that bitchy comment since I’m in a hurry. Lady, you gotta give me something to work with here. Did he tell you why he was leaving?”

“Sure he did.”

“Why?”

“He filed for divorce.”

The words have a force to them that nearly sends him stumbling back off the front step.

“Wh—he—that’s—” Richie catches his breath. “That’s fuckin’ wonderf—horrible. Terrible. So sad. I’m so sorry, for…your…loss.”

Myra glares back at him.

As soon as she proves to be no help, Richie’s on his phone standing in the Kaspbraks’ front lawn. Eddie does not answer the phone at first. So, he leaves a voicemail. Then, he calls again. And leaves another voicemail. And rinse, and repeat, and each voicemail sounds about the same:

“Pick up. Pick up. Pick up pick up pick up pick up pick up pick—”

_“Richie!”_

“Oh, hey! That’s so crazy, I was just thinking about you!”

_“I fucking—“_ Eddie takes a deep breath._ “What…what do you want?”_

“Where are you?”

_“Why?”_

“Who cares, just tell me where you are, alright?”

_“New York, asshole.”_

“Great. Fucking great. I’ll just scour the state all day, then. Thanks, Eduardo. Very helpful.”

_“What do you—”_ Then, a beat as it clicks. _“You’re here?”_

“Sure am. Standing in your front lawn. Just had a lovely chat with your ex-wife. She’s a real winner; don’t know why you’d divorce that prize.” Then again, and softer: “Eds, please tell me where you are.”

_“I’m…I’m, um…in the city. Staying in a hotel. I just went out for a run, I’m, uh…I’m in Central Park.”_

“I can be there in thirty. No, wait—twenty-five, if I speed.”

_“Don’t speed.”_

“Can you…can you wait? Please, just…wait.”

There’s a swallow._ “Yeah. Yeah, Richie, I’ll wait.”_

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t speed, ‘cause Eddie asked him nicely. Once he’s parked in the area, he calls Eddie again.

_“I’m near the big lake on the west side. Close to the street. You can drive up and—”_

“Nah, I’m already out of my car. I’m close, though.”

_“Richie, what are you doing?”_

“Walking, idiot.”

_“Not what I’m asking.”_

“Yeah, well, I guess you’ll see, alright? Just hold on. Don’t…fuckin’ go anywhere.”

_“I’m not.”_

“Good.”

_“I just don’t understand why you—”_

Richie pockets the phone when he sees him.

Eddie stands in the center of the path, looking at him with the biggest, dumbest doe-eyes. He starts talking when Richie starts storming closer.

“I can’t believe you’re here. Why did you do that? Why the fuck did you fly all the way across the country, that’s so fucking st—”

“You left your wife.”

Richie catches his breath as Eddie struggles to choke out a:

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“I…I…”

“That is so fucking cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Eds, that’s fuckin’ badass.”

“No, it’s…” Eddie looks off to the side—almost blushing. “I wasn’t gonna do it. I really wasn’t. Even after talking to my therapist about it, it just…somehow, I just remembered the way you believed in me, you know, as a kid. You know, I never could stand up to my mom. Ever. But you always told me I could. I guess something stuck, and I…I just woke up one day, and…I got my shit together, and I left. It’s ‘cause of you.”

“Nah, that’s not it. That’s a load of bullshit. It’s ‘cause you’re a badass, Spaghetti.”

Eddie looks up at him then from under thick lashes. His eyes are big, and wide, and they take in the compliment like a fucking absorbent sponge, with a smile growing on Eddie’s (frankly, wonderful) face slowly, inch by inch. And then he bites his lip, which nearly knocks Richie on his ass.

Richie has so many things he wants to tell him. He should’ve made a list. That would’ve been smart. Instead, he’s just stuck here staring back at him, so overwhelmed with how good it feels just to be standing next to him.

He came here in a rush to make it all right; to fix things. But whenever he’s near Eddie, time seems to slow down, and it’s so easy to get lost in the present moment. That feeling used to scare him. Now, Richie thinks it’s a good thing. He knows it.

Eddie speaks first.

“Why did you come here, Richie?”

“I just, uh…I wanted to see you,” comes out immediately. Because it’s the truth. “I like being around you. So much.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open, just a little. His eyes get soft.

“At first, I was also coming here to tell you to leave your wife, but, you uh…you sorta beat me to the punch on that one, so good job, there.” Richie tells him. “And I didn’t like…I didn’t like the way we left it on the phone, and then you left, and I was worried,” Richie says. “So I had to know you weren’t…that you didn’t hate me.”

Eddie shakes his head.

“I’ve never hated you once in my whole life, Rich.”

Richie thinks he gasps, or loses his breath, or something to that effect.

“Oh,” he says. “Good.”

Then, Richie says: “Do you wanna…do you wanna walk with me?”

For the better part of the afternoon, they stroll Central Park to the tune of idle banter and soft laughter—Richie with hands shoved deep in his pockets and kicking at the gravel and Eddie sparing glances at him intermittently, sometimes absently fingering the earbuds dangling from around his neck.

“When are you gonna start writing your next special?” comes up at some point.

“Shit, I don’t know. Should probably get on that now that we’re wrapped on touring my last one.”

“It was really good. I don’t think I’ve said that enough. You know, you’re really talented.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“I always knew you could do it. Even when we were kids, when you told me that comedy was what you wanted to do. I knew you’d be great at it. Part of the reason I was so upset about you leaving Derry was because I knew you’d be fine—better than fine, you know, you’d do so fucking fantastic out there. And you did.”

“You didn’t do so bad for yourself either, Eds.”

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.”

The sun begins to set in New York, and the orange light comes in rays through the trees.

“Have you heard from Ben and Bev?” Eddie asks.

“Nah, not since they left for Monaco. You know how it is. They’re _busy.”_

“Yeah.”

“Having sex.”

“Ye—yeah.”

Eddie stops walking. Richie notices this. He stops a few feet ahead of him and turns back with a question on his face.

Eddie stares at the ground, screwing his face around in thought.

He looks up at Richie; looks like he’s watching Richie’s face carefully for its reaction.

“We had sex.”

Richie’s heart picks up its pace. He takes a breath in and swallows.

“Didn’t we?” Eddie asks—almost as if he were checking to make sure he didn’t dream it. Richie can relate. He wondered that himself.

Richie nods his answer.

“And that…” Eddie starts again, still with his measured look. “That…that’s not something you want to talk about?”

Richie’s eyes are probably boring fuckin’ holes into Eddie’s at this point. He breathes deep into his chest.

“Yeah, that’s something I wanna talk about, Eds.”

“…Oh.”

But it’s said like an _“Okay”,_ which makes Richie feel a lot better.

“Can, we, um.” Richie swallows again. “Can we keep walking though? ‘Cause if we stop, I think it’s…I think it’ll just be too much for me.”

Eddie nods, open and willing. “Yeah, sure.”

They keep walking.

“Was it good?”

It’s a quiet question, and one that Richie doesn’t expect. He blinks, then does a double-take in Eddie’s direction.

“Wh—what?”

“I don’t—I mean, I’ve just never…I’ve never done that before, so I really didn’t know—I mean, I know you probably…all the time, but I—”

Richie is shaking his head, left-to-right, violently.

“Eddie—Eds, _Eddie,_ it was—fuck, yeah, it was good, alright? It was—Jesus._ ‘Good’_ isn’t—isn’t the fucking adjective I’d use, but sure, that’s a start, I guess.”

Eddie looks back up at him curiously, but seems to accept it. He nods.

There is a dip into silence. Richie takes another few preparatory deep breaths. He shuts his eyes for a moment; opens them, grounding himself.

“You said you love me.”

He does not mean over the phone. Not really. He means both now and then. He hopes Eddie knows this, because Richie desperately needs answers for both. Richie looks at him, and with everything, he tries to remind him of the truck with his eyes.

Eddie’s eyes meet his, and somehow, he knows.

“I did.”

Richie can’t stop the break in his voice when he asks: “Why did you say that?”

Eddie’s shaking his head at him.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant—"

“No, don’t give me that. Not _of course,_ because when you say that, Eddie, you don’t know…it…that _means something_, okay? It…” Richie’s eyes are wet and he knows it and it fucking fills him with shame. “It means something.”

“Richie, I’m sorry, I—”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to be sure. I just want you to be sure that you…that you know what you did, when you said that.”

Eddie’s eyes change again, to something…different. Something like back in the sewers, with Richie’s hand on his cheek and his downturned eyebrows. Something that might be like love.

“I know what I did.”

Eddie stops walking first, and glances to their left. Richie’s eyes follow. They’ve stopped in front of a hotel.

“This is…um. This is me.”

Richie blinks at him.

“I didn’t…um, I didn’t even…I didn’t mean…” Eddie’s struggling; trying to explain. But Richie understands. He nods.

“Do you want me to go?” Richie asks.

With eyes that won’t leave his, Eddie gently shakes his head.

“No.”

In the elevator up to the tenth floor, they are alone and quiet. They face the door, not each other.

He can hear the shaky breathing from Eddie on his left. Without moving his head, Richie spares a glance over and sees the way that Eddie won’t really look at him. Feels the uncertainty and the anxiety. Eddie’s hands are flexing and unflexing at his sides.

There’s a line tethered from Eddie’s heart to his—maybe it’s always been there—that is pulled on now.

Richie reaches out with his left hand—hesitantly, but calmly. But soon, he hooks his pinky in Eddie’s. Their fingertips graze, and he slowly, gradually, begins to interlace the rest.

Richie looks down and watches the hands as they move together. He remembers the way he would latch on to Eddie's hand as children. The way he would crave the contact, and how simple that need would feel, and how easy it was to satisfy. Nothing had ever been so easy since.

“I put the song on the tape because I love you.”

When Eddie looks up next, his eyes are shot with tears. And when he turns and kisses him in an easy, fluid motion, it feels like a swell of music.

What once terrified him had all but dissolved, and what was left was the faint, lingering wonder as to why it had ever scared him at all. Because just like the first time in the truck, Eddie feels the way all good things feel and better. Because Richie’s back meets the cold steel of the elevator because Eddie is kissing him and pushing him with such force. Eddie is unbuttoning the front of Richie’s shirt. Eddie is pulling them out of the elevator as Richie surges forward and takes control. It’s so much of everything he’s always wanted, and all at once, that Richie barely knows what to do with it.

Eddie fenagles it so that he can reach into his back pocket with his mouth still attached to Richie’s as he presses him against his hotel room door and pull out his keycard, swiping it through the reader.

Just as soon as it’s open it’s closed again, Richie slamming Eddie back against the door and moving his mouth to his neck as he drags his teeth on the taut skin there and Eddie chokes out a gasp, and goes back to tearing off Richie’s already half-unbuttoned shirt. Richie yanks at Eddie’s shorts and drags them to the floor.

Richie moves his mouth back to Eddie’s and the way their lips move together is loose and lazy and hot, until Eddie has to pull away to lift Richie’s t-shirt over his head. Richie forgets to be self-conscious about it because he’s too focused on the way the muscles in Eddie’s arms pull and flex, and how everything about him is so wonderfully male.

“I love you so much,” Richie says again, because it’s the truth and it’s easy now, and Eddie answers him with a hand on the back of Richie’s neck that brings their lips back together.

Richie’s hands rest on the skin between the hem of Eddie’s shirt and his boxer-briefs and climb higher and higher, lifting the shirt up (with the intention, of course, being to lift it off) until he feels something and his eye brows start to go all haywire and everything in his brain short-circuits.

He tears his lips away from Eddie’s. Eddie stills a bit. Richie looks down at his hands and the firmness beneath the fabric he’s just lifted up.

“Okay, now I’m fuckin’ mad at you.”

“Look, I can explain—”

“Explain what? Jesus Christ, Eddie, you’re hotter than Ben! How could you not tell me this?”

“Shut up, Richie, I’m not—” Eddie’s moving his hands to cover it now, like it’s some hideous deformity.

Richie takes a step back, pacing around for dramatic effect.

“This is a nightmare. This is my living hell. There’s a washboard on your stomach.” He flails an arm towards the offending six-pack, in case Eddie wasn’t aware of it before.

Eddie winces. “Is it that bad?”

“Oh, it’s bad.”

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry. Do you…still wanna fuck me?” Eddie’s looking at him and biting his lip, batting his eyelashes like an actual French whore.

Richie nods bravely. “I’ll find a way. I’ll power through.”

“Oh, good.”

Then, they’re back to it.

Eddie fuckin’ jumps him—literally, like a fuckin’ spider-monkey—and they’re three steps backward away from the bed, which is good because if it was any longer Richie’s knees would probably give out. And there weren’t very many things he could think of decidedly less sexy than that.

_“’Never done it before’_ he says,” Richie remarks as he’s laying back and Eddie’s climbing on top of him, attacking where his neck meets his ear down to the line of his jaw. Richie’s gripping at the backs of his thighs. “Never heard a more shameless fucking lie in my—_God_—in my whole life—”

Eddie stops, to look at him.

“I hadn’t. Or…not that. And not…this, either, really. Sex.”

“With a dude?”

“Or just that I enjoyed.”

“Well, that’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think? We haven’t done it yet.”

Eddie considers this. “Hm. True.”

“I could be a real lousy lay. You don’t know.”

“I don’t; you’re right,” Eddie says, unbuttoning and unzipping Richie’s jeans with determined force.

“Weird. This doesn’t seem to be deterring you.”

Eddie raises a (Hot. Sexy. Incredible.) eyebrow. “Are you trying to deter me?”

“Uh,” Richie’s got nerves wracking his voice. “Maybe? I’ll be honest, I’ve never gotten this far with any long-term goal of mine and it’s kind of freaking me out. And I have a well-documented history of self-sabotage.”

“Fucking me is one of your long-term goals?”

“Have you met you?”

That one gets some Eddie laughter, which is a big win for Richie. It’s pretty to look at and Eddie’s teeth are white.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” Richie says out loud.

Eddie, with his fingertips resting almost threateningly on the hem of Richie’s boxers, looks up with something different in his eye.

“Yeah?” he asks, lowly.

Richie gulps.

Eddie’s hand, in one motion, makes its way inside Richie’s boxers and wraps a firm hand around his cock. Richie’s eyes roll the fuck back inside his skull, and his head drops back down on the mattress from where he had propped himself up on his elbows.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Richie chokes, and before he can think better of it, is sitting up and pushing Eddie gently back onto the mattress so they’re flipped.

“W-whoa, whoa, wait, okay—”

Eddie’s eyes are wide beneath him.

“We gotta talk about something—”

“Richie what the _fuck—”_

“So, listen…”

“You weren’t _lying!?”_

“What, with all those ‘Big Dick Tozier’ jokes? No.”

“And you were giving me shit about my abs? Fuck you.”

“Well, hey, you might not believe this, Eddie, but some people don’t like monstrously big dicks.”

“You’re a monstrously big dick.”

“Alright, that one was a freebie.” Richie sighs; runs a hand through his hair. “Look, we don’t have to…we can just do some other shit, or you can do me, I don’t mind—”

Eddie’s eyes are narrowed. “You’d better have a third fucking leg under there if you’re telling me you can’t fuck me with it.”

“I just thought, you know, we’d work up to it—”

“Jesus Christ, just pull it out already. The suspense is killing me.”

“Alright, Jesus. Fuckin’ brat.”

It’s already a lot, in the moment, that they’re lying in a bed on top of each other in nothing but their underwear and fooling around, and this fact hits Richie pretty much immediately as soon as the spotlight turns on him and his penis.

He wouldn’t say it—only because he’s pretty sure Eddie’s primary source of comfort in all of this is the knowledge that Richie appears to know what he’s doing—but sexual encounters for Richie did _not_ go like this. They were mostly short, and hurried, and largely unconcerned with intimacy. Upsettingly, Richie cares what Eddie thinks of him. Which sucks two-fold, because it also causes Richie to arrive at the equally upsetting conclusion that he doesn’t actually think much of himself, despite appearances.

Richie takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Fuck, uh—alright, um…”

Eddie stops him with the graze of his fingertips to his wrist.

“Hey, Richie. I know we’ve been fucking around ‘cause that’s how we are, but if you ever need to stop, or take a breather, or something’s too much, you know, you can just tell me.”

Richie gulps down his fear.

“Yeah. Yeah, ditto. But, uh, I’m good, Eds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Eddie’s hands cover his own as they kiss and pull off Richie’s boxers together. Eddie breaks the kiss and looks down. Richie can only bare to keep one eye open, to gauge Eddie’s reaction. So far, nothing.

“…So? What’s the prognosis?”

“…Huh.”

Richie frowns. “Look, I get that maybe you need a minute—I know, it’s a lot to take in—but this blank staring at my penis is doing nothing for my boner.”

Eddie blinks. “…I want it in me.”

Richie blinks. “Jesus, it’s like a bad porno. What, are you a masochist? You don’t need to—”

“Oh, calm the fuck down, it’s not that big.”

“Gee, that’s emasculating.”

“Quit being so dramatic. Lube’s in the drawer on the right.”

Richie’s halfway reaching for it when he realizes the implications and freezes.

“You left your house with a single suitcase, but you brought_ lube?”_

“Um,” Eddie coughs. “Yeah.”

“What’s that about? Don’t tell me you thought something like this was gonna happen.”

“Well…” Eddie shrinks. “No, not…not exactly.”

Richie cocks his head in confusion.

“So…what?”

“I, um.” Eddie clears his throat again. _“Iboughtadildo.”_

“Huh? What?”

“I went out and I bought a dildo, alright!”

“Wh—when?”

“You, know, uh…” Eddie rubs the back of his neck and won’t look at him. “A couple, uh…a couple days after we…”

Richie’s grin starts growing and won’t stop as soon as he’s put the pieces together.

“Holy shit.”

“Stop.”

“And you…”

“Oh, don’t _start_—not with the shit-eating grin—Richie, _God—"_

“In the same house as whatshername?”

“You know her name, Richie.”

“Who gives a shit. I won, she lost. She can suck my dick.”

“It wasn’t a contest.”

“You say that just ‘cause you weren’t competing for washboard abs and the nation’s tightest ass.”

Eddie sighs, deeply.

“Not that I’m objectifying you, sweetie,” Richie adds. “You’re a person in your own right.”

“You can objectify me all you want so long as you’re getting the lube out of the fucking drawer before I’m dead.”

Richie gulps, and does that.

While Richie busies himself with the lube, warming it up between his fingers, Eddie’s head falls back on the pillow with a soft _plop._

“Somehow I feel that there’s not usually this much talking during sex,” he says.

Richie winces. “Is that bad?”

Eddie scoffs, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard. “No. It’s you, stupid.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Eddie cards a hand through his hair. “I spent my whole life wanting you to touch me—do you not get that?”

“Uh,” Richie stares back blankly. “Eds, not to steal your thunder here, but I think I do.”

“Then you should know what it means.”

Richie nods because, okay, maybe he does. Fair’s fair.

He’s pulling Eddie’s underwear down and off, heart beating out of his chest as he tries not to look too much like a staring freak, and Eddie’s looking up at him and his eyes are sweet.

“At the risk of sounding like a fuckin’ sap, I just…Richie, you gotta know that I—I always—_oh—”_

With Richie’s fingers inside him, for a brief couple of satisfactory moments, Eddie’s a little lost for words. Instead he’s _keening_—making the most wonderful fucking noises Richie’s ever heard in his whole damn life, and that puts them right back on track.

Once he maybe gets his brain back, Eddie’s craning his neck to draw Richie down with his mouth on his again, talking muffled against his lips.

“So fucking good—never felt like this—Christ, you should do this for a living—”

“You want me to start turning tricks?”

“You’re really fucking good at sex—would make us a fortune—oh my God—_fuck!”_

Richie’s fingers brush against the spot and Eddie falls to pieces with his breath hot in his mouth and it’s like Eddie’s gone to another fucking dimension. Richie will admit, freely, that it strokes his ego. He does it again.

“Mngh—you suck,” Eddie tells him, affectionately.

“I love you.”

“Richie, I love you too.”

“Mm—I know. That’s so rad.”

“Baby—” Eddie leans back a little. “Gonna come if you don’t stop soon—”

“Can you come twice?”

“I don’t know, just—wanna come when you’re inside me, _please—”_

Richie removes his fingers immediately. Because, shit, Eddie’s making some good points.

Eddie whines at the absence, and Richie stops short of telling him to fuckin’ cut it out because his dick is painfully hard enough as it is and he’s gotta be able to fuckin’ focus at least enough to get the stupid fuckin’ condom on—but the words don’t come, so he just does it while Eddie lays there making the most horrifically sexy little noises.

He’s fully inside of Eddie in no more than a few seconds after he’s got it on, with a firm but careful thrust of his hips that has them lost for breath in an instant.

_“Richie,”_ Eddie near-whispers, like his voice is shot. “You can…you can move—”

“Yeah?”

“…Richie?”

Richie’s got his eyes squeezed shut tight and is frozen in place.

“Yep! Nope—I hear ya pal, just—trying not to cum like a fuckin’ teenager right now—”

“Okay, one: don’t ever call me _‘pal’_ when your penis is inside me, and, sure, take your time.”

“’Kay. Yeah. I’m good. I’m ready. You ready?”

“Y—yeah—”

“Okay—_Jesus!”_

_“Oh—”_

_“Je-sus fucking—”_

“Richie—_oh_, oh Richie—_fuck—”_

Eddie’s arms are wrapped loosely around his shoulders, unlike the death-grip of his thighs, and it’s so much that he could die, but Richie gets his fuckin’ act together real quick, setting a reasonable but steady pace.

“This good?”

Eddie’s answer is more of a choked moan that is meant to mean_ yes._

“Yeah—look at you, so fuckin’ hot—fuckin’ _unreal_—hottest fuckin’ thing on two legs—”

“It’s so good—God, so big—I can feel you—I can feel you so much—Richie, _Christ_, keep talking—”

Richie wraps a hand around Eddie’s perfect dick and strokes, but Eddie brings his hand over, places it on top of Richie’s and moves it away, shaking his head.

“Don’t need it, just—_ah—_just fuck me.”

Richie’s eyes go big at that, but he’s hardly complaining.

“You like that? That you’re gonna come just from me fucking you? Fuck—yeah, you are. Taking it so good, _God—"_

There are things about fucking Eddie that he already knows it’ll be so easy to get addicted to. The way Richie’s huge shoulders look bracing Eddie’s smaller frame—the way Eddie was right about how that shouldn’t be so flagrantly pornographic but somehow is. The way Eddie’s naturally dirty mouth and bossy fuckin’ personality translates to the bedroom—the_ “oh shit, right there”_-s, and the_ “shut up and fuck me harder, Richie”_-s, and the _“sit up, I want to ride you”_-s. Which comes in at a strong number three, by the way—the way Eddie looks sitting on his cock. The way they do it, chest to chest, sweaty foreheads resting against each other while Eddie grinds down on him and Richie can feel every tiny breath and every clench and every tremble and shiver—it’ll be seared into his brain until he’s on death’s door, clinging to life support.

He’ll never forget it. Not this.

“Eds,” he chokes out when the movement gets slower and his body starts to clench tighter. “Shoulda told you. Shoulda…twenty-seven years ago, shoulda said—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie gasps. “I—I knew.”

He grabs Eddie’s hips and thrusts up now, because words have become too much. Eddie cries out and throws his head back. Richie kisses a line up his neck.

Eddie comes with _“I love you”_ on his lips. Richie isn’t scared of it anymore. A few thrusts more, and he comes shortly after. They collapse, and groan.

So, his face buried in the crook of Eddie’s neck, Richie starts singing.

Well, humming at first, then singing—in an obscenely high pitch that he doesn’t have the range for.

_“I’ll be loving you forever—”_

Eddie chokes a little bit.

_“Just as long as you want me to be—”_

Eddie’s giggling—fuck, _giggling_—up a storm. It fills the room.

“All right, all right, get off me. Get off. You’re never putting your dick anywhere near me again.”

He’s trying—sort of—to push Richie off, and not making much headway, so Richie just rolls off instead, albeit reluctantly.

_“Nooo—”_

“You’ve ruined it. You’ve neutered me with your singing.”

“What? It’s romantic.”

“Richie,” Eddie breathes.

“Mm?”

“Your glasses are all fogged up.”

Richie removes them; starts using the bedsheet to wipe them off.

“Yeah, I guess they are.”

Eddie stifles a giggle. “I wasn’t gonna say anything when we were fucking but it looked real fuckin’ funny.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that’s not embarrassing.” He plops the offending glasses down on the end table.

“You dork.”

“Can’t believe you came with Professor Frink fucking you.”

“If Professor Frink was really DILF-y and had a huge cock.”

Richie smiles lazily at Eddie with his head resting against the pillow.

“God, where have you been all my life?”

Eddie just laughs.

Richie rolls flat on his back.

The only sound in the clean and largely bare hotel room is the recovering, heavy breathing of two forty-year-old men out of their prime. Richie rests a heavy arm against his forehead.

“W-we, we could’ve been doing_ that,”_ he breathes. “For _twenty-seven goddamn years.”_

Eddie lets out a high-pitched breath that sounds like, “Uh-huh.”

_“Fuck_ that clown. I’m so _fucking angry.”_

Eddie returns to a resting heart rate first—at least enough for him to manage, “In twenty minutes, you’re gonna teach me how to blow you.”

Richie shakes his head at him, chest still breathing heavy.

“You are absolutely balls-to-the-walls insane. You’re nuts. Eds, you’re gonna make me discover a heart condition.”

“You’ll probably be fine.” Then, as a second, joyous thought: “Richie, oh my God, we’re going to have _so much_ sex.”

“Sure,” Richie breathes. He throws up a thumbs up. “Yay. Go team.”

He pumps a victorious fist in the air and slumps onto his left side, exhausted.

**now**

“Huh,” Richie says.

“Mm? What’s up?” Eddie lifts his head slightly from where it rests on Richie’s bare chest.

“No more creaky floorboards.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing. It’s just, uh. It’s like…” Richie starts, unsure. “I don’t know, I just feel…lighter.”

“Lighter?”

“Fuckin’ weird.” He blinks, thinking. “You know, I thought when we killed It, that all the memories would stop. When they didn’t, it…it just piled onto my denial of the whole thing. Like it couldn’t be real. I’d roll over in my sleep one morning, and there he’d be.”

Eddie looks at him with sympathy, his cheek resting flat on Richie’s skin and drawing idle circles into the palm of his hand.

“For a while I just thought they’d never go away.” Richie sniffles. “Fuckin’ sucked to think about. That I’d live with that for…for the rest of my life.”

He meets Eddie’s eyes now. He brushes a damp strand of dark hair away from Eddie’s forehead.

“Now, it’s like, uh…like they've always been there. Like it all sorta makes sense now. And it…it’s not so bad anymore.”

Eddie smiles at him. It brings him to realize that he’d been smiling, too.

“Hey, where’s your phone?” Richie asks suddenly.

“Shorts pocket—wait, why?”

“I wanna text Myra; tell her I just blew your back out.”

“No, Richie—”

**now**

They don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

The impending divorce comes up, of course, but nothing more than that.

Eddie checks out of his hotel and moves in with Richie in L.A.. It’s an easy decision that they don’t have to dance around.

When Ben and Bev get back from their bone-a-thon in Monaco about a month later, the newlyweds host dinner at their apartment.

Richie and Eddie wake up that day sometime between 11 and noon, have incredible sex, Eddie bakes lemon bars (Richie tries helping, but Eddie kicks him out of his own kitchen), and they arrive at the Marsh-Hanscom front door around 7—one of Eddie’s hands gripping a baking dish, and the other gripping Richie’s hand. Eddie taps his foot. Richie checks his watch.

Bev opens the door. She looks down.

There is one momentary beat.

“Ooh, lemon bars.”

She grabs the baking dish out of Eddie’s hand and retreats back into the apartment.

Richie and Eddie share a look that’s a mix of shock and confusion.

_“Did you tell her?”_ Eddie whispers, accusingly.

_“No, I didn’t fuckin’ tell her, who the hell do you take me for, gay Benedict Arnold?”_

_“Well why the fuck didn’t she say anything?”_

_“I don’t know, ask her yourse—”_

“Uh, guys? Are you coming in?” Bev asks from the kitchen. “’Cause if you’re not, at least shut the door.”

Richie leads Eddie into the apartment, eyebrows still furrowed in confusion. Because by this point, there was no mistaking it—there was no way Bev hadn’t seen.

There’s talking and laughter in the living room—enough that he knows that everyone else is already here. So it gets really weird when, aside from jovial cheers of, _“Hey, Eddie! Richie!”_, etcetera, no one says anything in_ there_, either.

Eddie seems completely lost, but Richie is starting to get slightly pissed off. It feels like he’s about to be the victim of some prank.

So he jerks his and Eddie’s intertwined hands high above their heads and shouts to the room:

“Hey, assholes!” the room gets quiet as heads turn. “Gay! We’re gay! We’re in love and we’re gay! Greatest love story of our generation! No one’s gonna comment on that?”

He’s met with more silence.

Then, the Losers start to look around at each other. There’s a lot of blinking and blank stares.

Something’s not right.

“But I-I thought…” Bill starts. “I thought you guys g-g-got together at your show. Y-you know, the first one you did after Derry—d-didn’t Eddie like, fly a-across the country for that?”

“No, we didn’t—”

“Wait,” Ben sets down his glass of water on the coffee table. “You guys didn’t have sex at the wedding?”

“Yeah, we saw you leave…” Mike trails off in confusion.

Richie’s head is darting back and forth like it’s a fucking tennis match.

Eddie starts sputtering. “We—well, no, not—not exactly, I mean, well, sort of, but—”

Richie’s head now turns expectantly to Bev, sitting on the couch arm. Her mouth hangs open with a real deer-caught-in-headlights expression as she thinks about how to answer.

“I also thought you two had sex at the wedding,” Bev admits. “I just didn’t want to say anything afterwards ‘cause it was before the divorce, you know, I didn’t want to create any evidence that could somehow be used against Eddie in court.”

“I’ll be the first to admit I was surprised back at the restaurant in Derry when Eddie said that he was married,” Mike offers.

“Y-y-yeah, I was surprised at that too!”

“Okay, what the fuck?” Richie shouts, breaking his silence.

Bev frowns. “I’m sorry, honey, I guess we just assumed. It was kinda old news. We’re happy for you, though!”

Richie’s eyes catch a flash of green out of his periphery as he watches Bill slide Ben some cash—clearly trying to be covert.

“Hey! Hey!” Richie lets go of Eddie’s hand and storms over. “What the fuck is this, huh? What the hell is that?”

Bill holds up his hands in surrender. Ben’s openly counting the bills.

“R-Rich, come on, Ben and I made a stupid bet, a-alright, that’s all—”

“Bill said you guys snuck off to go bone at your show in L.A., I said, _‘No way. They got together at the wedding, like you and Mike.’_ Alright? And I win, so.”

“Hey, fuck you, Haystack!”

“Hey, fair’s fair, Richie.”

It pisses him off initially, but later, as they’re all flitting around the kitchen island with drinks and nibbling at cheese trays while Bill watches his pot roast like a hawk on steroids, Richie sidles up next to Ben and confronts him with a slightly more serious tone of voice.

“So, uh,” Richie clears his throat. “What, you…so you guys always knew, or…?”

Ben scoffs. “’Course we always knew, numb nuts. That shit was depressingly obvious.”

Richie stares dryly. “You do realize how insulting this is coming from _you_, right?”

Hanscom shrugs. And that’s about the extent of the conversation, other than a firm pat to the shoulder from Ben and a: “Happy for you, Rich. Took damn near long enough.”

There’s a different and liberating feeling when they sit down to dinner that night from when they all first met at the Jade Orient. It’s kinda like a victory lap—like reclaiming something hugely important that was stolen from them.

And it’s better, anyway, because Eddie’s hand rests warm on his thigh under the table this time, and it doesn’t have a ring on it.

“Can I say grace?” Richie asks, once Ben’s forkful of food is inches away from his face.

“Richie, you don’t believe in God.”

“Well, see, that’s the funny thing—recently I’ve converted.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Richie bows his head and closes his eyes anyway.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this time among friends, for Bill’s pot roast that, despite his efforts, is still drier than the Mojave.”

“Oh, c-come on!”

“I also would like to take the time to personally thank you, God, because Eddie’s got a rockin’ bod, and last night we did it on the kitchen counter, which I know you must have had a hand in however indirectly, and that was pretty fuckin’ tight. So thanks for doing me that solid.”

“Jesus, Richie—”

“I’m trying to eat—”

“Also, Stan seemed to like you a whole lot, which means you’re pretty alright by me. Stan was a good guy, Lord, and I know you two are probably chumming it up in heaven right now. We’d pass you some of Bill’s pot roast if we could. Amen.”

Despite it all, as a group, they all collectively answer: _"Amen"._

When it’s over and everyone’s trying to help with dishes, Bev taps his shoulder and pulls him aside and into the hallway.

She reaches into the jetted pocket of her blazer and pulls out an envelope.

“I wanted to tell you in private,” she says, handing it to him. “This came in our mail today.”

He looks at her curiously. It’s a Derry address.

“He’s not gonna jump out of this envelope, is he?”

“No.” She shakes her head, but her face still looks deadly serious and isn’t making him feel any better.

He opens it and pulls out a piece of cardstock.

He stares at it.

“Oh, shit.”

Bev is watching his reaction carefully, and he knows why.

He shakes his head. He shoves the cardstock and envelope back to her.

“Fuck that. Fuck that.”

“Really? Still?”

“I’m not going to a fucking high school reunion, Bev, are you fucking out of your mind?”

“Richie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m not passing judgment. I just wanted to hear your thoughts. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna go, either.”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“Yes.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Ben wants to go, too.”

“He’s crazy. You’re both crazy. You’re perfect for each other.”

Bev grabs his arm.

“Richie, they_ remember._ Because of us—because of what we did.”

“I didn’t kill that clown for anybody in that fucking town, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“And we don’t owe them anything. But maybe you owe yourself some closure. Maybe we both do.”

Richie looks at her. He shakes his head.

“Damn you. Worse than my shrink.”

**now**

_“Waterloo! I was defeated, you won the war. Waterloo! Promise to love you for ever more—”_

“Isn’t this the class of ’94? Who the fuck chose this music?” he shouts into Bill’s ear over the noise of the Derry High School gymnasium. Bill just shrugs and drinks his Budweiser. Richie drinks punch that looks suspiciously like Kool-Aid and is, to his misery, not spiked with anything.

Richie’s watching Eddie carefully from across the room. Eddie’s found his friends from the track team and has struck up what seems to be a lively conversation. Part of him wishes he’d never told Eddie about the reunion. He knew he’d want to come; fuckin’ cream himself with joy when he found out. And that’s pretty much exactly what happened, too. Of course, he didn’t want to go if Richie didn’t. But that was a fucking trap, because if he said _no_, then Eddie’s eyes got all sad, and that was no good.

So, here they were.

If he sees anyone even loosely related to Henry Bowers--a niece, a sister-in-law, a third cousin twice-removed, Richie's gonna go jump in a lake.

“Richie Tozier?”

He looks up from his drink. It’s two blonde women he doesn’t recognize.

“Didn’t we make out at a party once?” one asks.

“Could be,” he says, honestly.

“I’ve seen your stuff on Netflix! So funny! You’re kind of like a celebrity now, huh?”

“By some metrics.”

They quickly get bored with him and start chatting up Bill and Mike, which is a fucking relief.

A third woman joins the mix soon—brown-haired and pretty, and this one Bill recognizes.

“M-Megan! Holy shit—y-you, you look great!”

Megan Thomas beams.

“So do you, stunner. Bill Denbrough. _Ho-ly crap.”_

“This is my partner, Mike Hanlon.”

Richie nearly spits out his punch at how easily Bill fuckin’ says that shit. _Here,_ of all places—

“I remember Mike! Yeah! Yeah, of course I do! We had our own anti-prom! So much fun!”

…Megan doesn’t seem fazed by it in the least, anyway. Maybe she just thinks Bill runs a two-man legal firm.

Bevvie and Ben approach from the dance floor as the two blondes talking to Mike go to leave.

None of them miss the way they eye up Bev as they pass her. You’d have to be blind. Ben pulls her in closer.

Megan Thomas shakes her head, crossing her arms.

“Some people don’t ever fucking grow up.”

Bev swallows. “It’s fine.”

Richie grips his plastic cup so tight he crushes it, and tosses it into the waste bin.

“It’s not fine.”

“Richie—”

“It’s not—come with me.”

He grabs her hand violently and starts dragging her along behind him.

“Richie, no—Richie, hey! What are you—”

He heads off the two women as they head for the concessions stand, and they stop in their tracks.

“Hi there. You both suck.”

They look at each other.

“No—yeah, you heard me. You both suck ass. I do remember making out with you, actually. It was pretty much what I imagine kissing a dead fish must be like. You’re both forty, and you’ve spent half your lives with personalities so fucking dull that the only reason you came here tonight is because you know you both peaked in high school.”

Mouths agape, they both seem a little too stunned to reply.

“Beverly, what do you do for a living?”

Bev is staring up at him with a look that is begging him to explain himself.

“What?”

“Just answer the question. What do you do for a living?”

“I—I’m a fashion designer. I have my own clothing brand.”

“And how much do you make in a year?”

“Uh—I—maybe 130—”

“Oh, really! And can you please point to the man you go home and have sex with every night?”

Slowly, Bev points back to Ben.

“And what does he do?”

“He’s the CEO of an architecture firm.”

“And how would you describe his yearly salary?”

“Obscene.”

“Oh! Obscene!”

Beverly’s caught on now.

Richie looks back to the two blondes.

“While Beverly is boning her mega-hunk tonight in her mansion and bathing in money, I’m sure she’ll take time to think about how sorry she is that your lives are so pathetically hollow that you’ve managed to hold a petty grudge against her for thirty years.”

He grabs Bev’s hand again and they storm away together.

“Richie,” she whispers, laughing. “I don’t own a mansion.”

“But you _do_ take baths in money.”

“Oh, yeah, that part’s true.”

There’s a set of double-doors at the side of the gymnasium that open up to a small outdoor area, with stairs leading down into the parking lot. He and Bev find themselves there, leaning against the railing and basking in the cool night air.

Bev leans up on her tip-toes and kisses him on the cheek.

He shoots her a weird look.

“What was that for?”

“That was the start of our love affair. I’m leaving Ben. You’re the only one for me.”

“Oh, finally. Thank Christ.”

Bev swallows. “Just…thank you.”

Richie shakes his head.

“Nah…don’t thank me.”

“Why not?”

Richie stares at his feet. He frowns.

After composing himself looks up and into the crowd in the gym, searching. After a little while, he points to the woman he’s been avoiding like the plague all night.

“See that girl? Big brown hair, talking to Megan?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s Bethany Kowalski,” he tells her. “I lost my virginity to that girl.”

“Huh. Lucky you.”

Richie doesn’t even crack a joke. He just stares into the gym with a dead look. He can barely say the next words.

“She doesn’t know that, though. ‘Cause that’s not what I told her.”

“Wh—what did you tell her?”

He stares at his shoes again.

His lips start to quiver involuntarily. He feels the sting in his eyes where they’re turning red.

He peels his eyes up and forces himself to look at Bev.

“I told her that we, um—”

But by the time he looks up, he can tell in her eyes that she already knows.

That’s what has him breaking down crying.

He doesn’t remember what he babbles out. Maybe:_ “Bev, I’m so fucking sorry,”._

Bev’s arms wrap around his and pull him in close while he sobs into her shoulder. She rocks him back and forth.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m so fucking ashamed—”

“Don’t be. You don’t have to be anymore.”

There’s a Bob Dylan song playing faintly from the gym. The wind in Derry blows that night and feels cool on his back.

“I love you, Richie,” Bevvie says into his hair.

“Love you too, Bev,” is mumbled into the fabric of her shirt.

And Richie knows that it’s true.

**now**

Eddie stops Richie before they make it to their car that night.

“I have something I need to show you,” he says, interlocking his fingers with Richie’s.

And Eddie takes him to the Kissing Bridge.

Richie ends up sobbing twice that night.

Well, he laughs his ass off first--when he sees it and his brain registers what Eddie's showing him. Because it's breached that territory of being just so fucking sad that it's funny. He looks at the carvings in the wood and all he can think is, _what a pair of fucking idiots._

The laughter does eventually turn to sobbing, though. Because it's just so wonderful.

“Shit,” he tells Eddie later, through the tears. “It’s like some shitty Lifetime movie.”

**now**

Richie Tozier had always considered time his enemy. Heading up a list of other strong contenders such as bell-bottom jeans, tax season, and the food at Taco Bell. Also the clown.

But he doesn’t think of it that way anymore.

He likes being forty. He used to hate it, but he likes being forty with Eddie. It works for them. It feels right. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t have this weird relationship with his youth anymore. Or maybe it’s because he thinks the grey hairs Eddie finds in the mirror in the morning are sexier than anything he can dream up to jack off to. Eddie thinks that’s weird. Richie says, _“It’s like I’m dating George Clooney.”_

They fall into a sort of easy pattern after the divorce goes through. Richie wondered at first about how they would both adjust to such drastic, upending life changes at forty, but the answer turns out to be _pretty fucking easily_. Like fish take to water.

**now**

Eddie sells the house in New York after Myra moves out. He quits his job and puts the money from the house towards classes at UCLA, because he decides he wants to shift into art therapy. It helped him a lot, he says, when he first started seeing someone for his anxiety.

**now**

Richie tours less and starts writing more, because as it turns out, he really likes it. And it’s an excuse to be home more.

The writing he actually gets done on any given day starts varying wildly when Eddie brings home a copy of the Kama Sutra, and with wide eyes, expresses to Richie, _“Were you aware there’s so much we haven’t done?”_

**now**

“Please tell me you put some awful shit on that bitch’s tombstone. Like—_Sonia Kaspbrak: Her heart was full-to-bursting.”_

“Jesus Christ, Richie—”

_“She just had too much love to give.”_

Richie is just making himself laugh now. Maybe it’s not the best pillow talk.

“I’ll wait.”

_“Sh—”_ but he can’t get through the joke.

“Are you done? Are you—”

_“She’s buying a stair lift to heaven.”_

“Okay.”

“N—no, I’m done, that’s it.”

“Okay.”

“I swear.”

“Yep.”

“Wait, one more—”

**now**

They visit Eddie’s mom’s grave together. It is the first time Eddie has visited since her interment. He brings flowers, and Richie holds his hand while he places them on the headstone.

**now**

Eddie finds the tape in one of the boxes he eventually unpacks from the move.

Richie doesn’t have the words for what looking at that thing does to him.

Eddie says he wants to shadowbox it, and keep it ‘till they’re dead.

At the suggestion, Richie promptly makes love to him.

**now**

Richie brings Eddie with him when he visits Sarah and her family.

After she opens the door and gives Richie a long and misty-eyed hug, Richie introduces Eddie, jokingly, as:

“My totally platonic roommate.”

Flatly, Eddie says:

“I’m his boyfriend.”

Richie chokes on nothing but the air. It’s the first time either of them say it out loud.

“Well, my, uh…my second joke was gonna be that you’re actually my court-appointed therapist, but you just cut right to the chase, huh?”

Sarah remembers Eddie, turns out. She remembers everything about Derry, and doesn’t even remember forgetting.

That night after dinner, Eddie watches from the doorway as he puts Sarah’s kids to bed.

Richie catches him with a goofy look on his face, and asks a silent question with his eyes. Eddie just blushes and looks away.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Eddie says once their heads hit the pillows.

“What was earlier?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Richie freezes.

“I know we never really talked about it,” Eddie explains.

“Eds, I swear to God, I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be.”

“Even my boyfriend?”

“I’d be your platonic roommate if it still meant you wanted to hang around me. I might get weird boners whenever you’re around, but we wouldn’t have to talk about it.”

“I don’t want you to be my platonic roommate. The sex is too good.”

“Okay, score.”

“I think boyfriend sounds good.”

“Boyfriend it is, then.”

“You don’t think it’s weird ‘cause we’re forty?”

“Nah. The clown that ate people was weird. This is tame, by comparison.”

**now**

Being in and accepting love turns out to be easier than Richie ever thought it would be. And it’s better. Richie thinks he finally understands the meaning of the word, _‘fulfilling’._

He lives a fulfilling life with Eddie.

It’s rewarding in the most pleasantly surprising of ways. Like when their washing machine breaks on a Thursday night.

At the laundromat down the street, Eddie folds clothes while Richie sits on top of a spinning dryer, swinging his legs. The Blind Side plays on the laundromat TV.

“I can do a killer impression of Sandy Bullock.”

“Please don’t.”

_“If you get a girl pregnant out of wedlock, I will crawl into the car, drive up to Oxford, and cut off your penis.”_

“That movie’s terrible, Richie."

“Yeah, it’s not good.”

There’s a comfortable silence filled by the soft whirring of the machine.

“You know, we’ve been here for near-two hours now and you haven’t said anything about my missing glasses.”

“Tell me you didn’t break them again.”

“I didn’t break them again.”

“…But did you really?

“No, really,” Richie assures him. “They’re at home on my nightstand.”

“O..okay. Then…you can’t see?”

“Oh, I can see.”

Eddie is confused.

“My contacts came in today. I know the Professor Frink look got you all hot and bothered, but I decided there was probably an easier solution to my glasses fogging up when we bang than sliding into some Simpsons roleplay.”

“You got sex contacts?”

“I got sex contacts.”

Eddie smirks. “Hot.”

“Man, weird things turn you on.”

“I’m dating _you.”_

“Ouch. Low-hanging fruit.”

Eddie just laughs.

“I can do it too, see? You’re a…sexy clothes-folder.”

Eddie blushes. “Shut up.”

“You are. Everything you do is sexy. Especially with the way your arm muscles work. It makes my ovaries tingle.”

“You don’t have ovaries.”

“My phantom ovaries, then.”

_“God.”_

“It’s a shame our washing machine doesn’t work. I’d have you take me home and ravish me on it.”

The underwear Eddie’s holding snaps out of his hands in shock.

He clears his throat as Richie grins predatorially.

“Is that, um…” Eddie starts. “Is that something you’d…want?”

“Washing machine sex?”

“Me ravishing you.”

“Oh. That.”

Richie tries to gauge Eddie’s response.

“Ye—yeees?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“That depends?”

“Richie.”

“Yes. It is.”

“I’ve never been on top before,” Eddie says thoughtfully.

“That’s not technically accurate,” Richie points out.

“I’ve never topped you before.”

Richie swallows. His throat is dry.

“There you go.”

They’re kissing before they make it in the front door again, and the laundry gets dropped in an unceremonious heap in a bag on the floor.

The door shuts and Richie drops to his knees (which fucking hurts, but he doesn’t remark on it or care) and shucks off Eddie’s belt and jeans and underwear, and starts blowing him before he really knows what he’s doing.

Eddie’s fingers card lovingly through his hair. At times they pull, and yank, and Richie’s eyes water because he feels so much. And it’s so overwhelming because not so much time has passed that he doesn’t remember when he didn’t used to feel anything. When _this_ didn’t make him feel anything.

And it’s like he’s got a whole life back.

They don’t make it to the bed, or even the couch. They do it on the floor, after Eddie comes down his throat.

Eddie gets hard again just watching Richie finger himself open. Richie has remarked more than once that Eddie’s got the recovery period of a _“frat boy that does nothing but jerk off all day”._

“You’re so fucking hot, Richie. So good for me.”

Eddie’s fumbling for a condom in his wallet but Richie starts batting it away.

“Hey—hey, uh…don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t. Unless you, uh…feel you need to. I get it, if you do, I just…”

“You want…”

“Yeah. I want.”

“That’s the hottest fucking thing…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m hot, you’re hot, we’re all hot. Hurry up, I’m dying here.”

It’s not the first time Richie’s bottomed.

It’s the first time it feels like this.

And he thinks about it. How he and Eddie cooked dinner together (yes, together), and their washing machine broke, so they called the company and the warranty’s still good but they won’t get someone out to fix it ‘till Monday, so they went to the laundromat and did their laundry together, and now he’s lying on the floor of their house and Eddie is fucking him.

He thinks about it.

It’s a lot.

Eddie’s got one hand on Richie’s cock and is making sure they come together. The things he whispers into Richie’s ear are not family-friendly.

After, Eddie collapses on top of him and it’s a sweaty, messy jumble of limbs on the hardwood floor in front of the TV.

“Well, consider me ravished.”

He can feel Eddie smiling into the space between his earlobe and his jaw, like a ray of fucking sunshine. His fingertips are ghosting down the length of Richie’s arms, reaching for his hands.

“I’m so happy that you love me,” Eddie whispers simply.

That does it.

The tears come on suddenly, but are pathetically unsurprising. He’s crying while Eddie’s dick is still softening inside him.

Eddie brings a hand up to play with the strands of Richie’s hair, while Richie stares up at the ceiling trying desperately to get ahold of himself, and failing.

In his ear, Eddie begins to gently hum a familiar tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Spotify playlist featuring all of the songs that get name-dropped throughout the fic, as well as a few that significantly aided and inspired me in the writing of this. Check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4diHJsGPgZgKCfdJa1V7zE
> 
> I am rachelamberish on tumblr. Come talk to me!


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